Lion and Wolf
by Charis77
Summary: Children of Honorhall: What if Grelod wasn't killed? Hroar's past comes back to haunt him and he must decide where his loyalty lies.
1. Prologue

The young man's eyes lit up, his face bathed in green light as chains of electricity twirled in his hand. "That's it!" he shouted. The light abruptly ceased as he lowered his hand and began to scribble furiously in a book. He muttered to himself as he did so, his voice a quick stream of excitement, the words tumbling over each other. When he finished his writing, he gazed down on the book and smiled, satisfied with his discovery and his explanation. He held his hand aloft to enjoy the fruits of his labor again when several taps resounded on the door of his lab.

He sighed and turned. "Enter."

A woman close to his age opened the door, but stayed put in the hall outside. "Brought another in. Need you."

The young man pursed his lips. "What is it _this_ time?"

"Werewolf."

He shook his head. They'd been bringing in more of them lately what with their current quest to root out a hidden group.

"I _know_ you don't like to do it, but it's your job."

He scowled at the woman. "I've never not done it, have I?"

The woman sneered. "You'd stay here all day if we let you!" She gestured wildly around his lab.

"Tell them I'll be there soon," the young man snapped, turning back to his book.

"I'll never know _why_ she chose to bring you here. You aren't one of us!"

The young man pulled his hand into his chest as it began to glow. It took all his willpower not to fling energy at the woman. He heard the door slam shut. He took several deep breaths to calm himself as he'd been taught. _She's not worth your anger_ , he told himself, but it still took time to cool nonetheless.

The young man let out another sigh as he closed his book. The woman was right. He didn't like to do it, but it was his duty. He walked to the door and down the hall, passing another couple members of his order. He traversed a hall where members were chatting and eating, then down some steps that twisted round and round. He paused at the bottom when he heard a sharp cry. "They're beasts not people. Not people," he reminded himself. He followed the sound of the cry to a solid cell door. Shouting sounded inside, voices of his order.

"Transform, creature!"

"You can't hide! We saw you!"

"We know what you are!"

The young man heard several thuds and a human scream again. No, not a human. A beast. She'd told him that when she first explained all this to him. They were no longer human. They were abominable beasts in need of extinction.

The human cry escalated, roughened and heightened. Chills tingled the young man's spine as the voice changed into an angry howl. The truth had been revealed. There was no human, only beast.

The young man steeled himself and rapped on the cell door. A face appeared as the tiny window in the top slid up. It was the woman. "Took you long enough."

The young man bit back a bitter reply as the door opened for him. He ignored the woman and focused his attention on the captive chained to a board tilted upright. He knew he was safe. The beast's arms, legs, chest and neck were securely fastened. A muzzle had been tightened around its pointed nose and mouth. He walked towards the beast. Its eyes were darting back and forth as two members of the order stood on each side, silver swords in hand, ready to cut down the beast if needed. Once he was close enough, the beast fixed his stare on the young man.

The young man broke his gaze. He didn't want to see what he saw. Those eyes, they should belong to a beast, but he always thought he saw a hint of humanness. It would distract him and he couldn't afford that now. Instead he looked to the left shoulder of the beast where the mark would be placed. He reached into a satchel he had carried with him and withdrew a jar. He opened it briefly, dipping his fingers inside it. He closed it and put it back in his satchel, then rubbed the beast's left shoulder, pushing the ointment through fur and into skin. Finally, he took a deep breath and kindled the energy in his hand. It crackled yellow at first, then coalesced into a tight glowing ball. The young man wielded it slowly, holding his palm out to the shoulder then pressing it in, concentrating as he did so. He heard the whimper of the werewolf as its skin absorbed the energy. It had stiffened against the pain. The young man withdrew his hand. A mark patterned in swirls glowed on the shoulder. It disappeared as the werewolf fur dissolved into skin. That happened sometimes when he applied the mark, as if the werewolves wanted to hide it, though they wouldn't be able to rid themselves of it.

The young man pulled back and turned, unwilling to see what the beast looked like now. He walked towards the door. He heard a man of his order lecturing the beast. "We can track you now so it is no use to escape. You will tell us the location of your pack."

The beast didn't answer and the young man heard the thwack of a cudgel against flesh and a grunt. He bit the inside of his lip against the sound.

"You feel such sympathy for them?" The woman had blocked the young man's exit.

"No." He didn't lie. It wasn't sympathy exactly. He didn't regret beasts and abominations being removed from Skyrim. It's just...when he heard the torture, it reminded him of five years of his life he'd rather forget.

The woman narrowed her eyes. "Hroar the Lion. You're no lion. You're a mouse." The woman stepped away from the door to let him pass.

Hroar ground his teeth, but walked on without fighting back. He'd put up with her ever since he'd come here. She'd always been arrogant and angry. _Not worth my time_ , he reminded himself.

As he made to exit, a voice screamed out and not one of his order.

"I won't tell you!"

He stalled in the doorway. His heart stuttered. He slowly looked over his shoulder. The man strapped to the board had welts all down his chest. He was staring defiantly at the members of the order in front of him. One of them punched him in the face.

"Where are they?"

"Never!"

"Get going!" the woman said, shoving him out the door and shutting it behind him. Hroar stood frozen in the hall, listening to the muted questions and answers. He regained his legs and fled back the way he'd come, members he passed turning their heads, wondering why he was in such a hurry.

When he made it to the safety of his lab, he shut and locked the door, then slid into a chair, hand to his mouth. The voice had been familiar, like something from a distant memory. He recognized the cadence, the accent, but he couldn't place it. He didn't know any werewolves. Or did he?


	2. Honorhall

"Sniveling brat! Useless waste!"

Hroar froze at the harsh voice and stiffened sensing what was coming. Sharp pain seared across the back of his thighs. He tried to move, to get away, but his feet wouldn't cooperate. A second blow struck and he heard himself scream. _Run! Run!_ His legs wouldn't be commanded.

"Stop!" a voice shouted.

Hroar's feet unlocked. He turned to see a boy similar in age had knocked his tormenter to the floor. The boy smirked at him and nodded his head to the door. "Come on." He walked away.

"Don't you dare!" the tormenter spat out from the floor.

Hroar took several steps.

"No you don't!" The tormenter gripped his hand. Hroar pulled, then kicked. He had to follow. He had to. The boy was disappearing out the door. _No! Wait!_...

* * *

Hroar's eyes shot open. He pushed himself up and scoped out the room. He was alone. Must be morning. He sucked in and released a deep breath. He'd been dreaming. None of it had been real...at least, not for a long time.

Hroar rubbed his eyes, then stood and made his way to the wardrobe next to his bed. His back was slick with sweat. He rummaged inside and found a fresh robe. A moment before he closed the door, his eyes landed on another robe, one he couldn't fit into. It was made for a woman. He stared at it. He'd not been able to pass it on or get rid of it. She'd saved him. He owed her everything.

Hroar closed the wardrobe door, turned to a wash basin and briefly sponged down, then donned the new robe. He left the small room, now his, once hers. He stretched his arms out in front and yawned as he traversed the distance to the dining hall. No one in the halls. He must have slept late. Then why was he so tired?

Hroar entered the hall filled with similarly robed figures eating their morning meal. He sat down and a bowl and a crust of bread were promptly set in front of him by one of the cook's helpers. He sighed and ate slowly.

"You're up late today."

Hroar's teeth clamped down on his bread. He shifted his eyes a little down the other side of the table. He hadn't realized he'd chosen the table the woman sat at. She had fixed him with those infernal dark eyes. "Didn't sleep well," he grumbled in response, looking away from her.

" _I_ heard you ran away from the cell like a scared cat."

Hroar kept chewing. Why did she always bait him?

"Poor little werewolf. Needs your sympathy, does it?"

Hroar choked down the bread. _Not worth my time. Not worth it._

"You're nothing like Dimia. You don't deserve her lab!"

There it was. The truth. Hroar snapped his head up, his eyes boring into her. "Neither are you!"

The woman started to stand. "How dare you..."

"Lay off, Lucia!" a member sitting next to the woman shouted, grabbing her arm to pull her back down to the bench. Lucia pushed back, breaking the member's hold. She glared at Hroar and spun around, her dark blonde braid swishing behind her as she bolted for the exit.

"Ignore her," a member next to Hroar advised. "You know she's never been able to control herself around you."

"Yeah," Hroar muttered,watching Lucia's retreating back. She'd hated him ever since he'd been brought here. He picked at his bread. Yesterday she'd implied Dimia shouldn't have brought him here. She didn't understand. No one did. He'd never mentioned what life was like before. Only he knew that Dimia had pulled him from the depths of hell on earth...

* * *

"You know what you'll get if you get out of line? This and worse!"

A hard slap and its sting greeted Hroar the first day of his arrival at Honorhall Orphanage. He'd made the mistake of telling the headmistress of the orphanage the meaning of his name: "Mama named me after a lion. Roooooar!"

He didn't understand what he'd done wrong, how it had been "out of line." He'd covered his cheek, tears welling up in his eyes.

"And stop crying! I hate crying!" the headmistress shouted.

He choked back the tears as best he could. The headmistress hauled him by his upper arm into the orphanage's living area, tossing him onto a bed. As he sat there working to stave off sobbing, she peered into his bag of meager belongings. She pulled out his clothes.

"You only get two of these," she declared, dropping two sets of clothes onto the bed. She rummaged around and out came his toy soldiers. "Waste! You get one." She threw a lone swordsman onto the pile of clothes. "Food?" She pulled out his food pouches, stepped over to the fire and threw them in. "You eat what I say!" She closed the bag, hefted it over her shoulder, moved back to his bed and leaned down towards him. Hroar instinctively pushed back into the bed, afraid. She yanked on his ear and he whimpered in pain. "Sniveling brat. If you ever cry again I'll teach you how to shut up." She turned on her heel and retreated to her own room off the living area.

Hroar drew in a shaky breath as he watched the elderly woman exit.

"Welcome to Honorhall," a sarcastic voice spoke near him. He turned to see a boy a couple years older in the bed next to his. "Name's Samuel."

"I'm Hroar," he replied quietly.

"She's Grelod," Samuel informed him, nodding towards the headmistress' bedroom. "Grelod the Kind." The boy snorted.

Hroar rubbed at his cheek. The Kind?

"You really named after a lion?"

Hroar nodded. "Mama said I was."

"Why?"

Hroar shrugged his shoulders. She'd never told him. And now she never could. She was dead. Least, that's what he'd been told. His parents had been gone most of his life; why he wasn't sure. He'd lived with an elderly farming couple. His parents showed up now and then to visit. Those were good days. They always brought treats and presents. And stories. He loved sitting on his papa's lap as he related stories of the wilds of Skyrim, his mama adding her own details as necessary. But these times were usually short-lived and then they were waving good-bye and gone again.

And then a month ago, everything had changed for him. The elderly couple had lost their farm; it had been sold to pay their debts. They tried to get the new owner to keep him on as a worker, but the farmer said he was too young and feeble to be of any good. The couple had sat him down and explained they didn't have the means to keep him and that they had to tell him the truth, that his parents had crossed into the beyond. When he'd asked what that meant, they'd looked at each other and then said, "You know. Hopefully they're in Sovngarde." He'd heard about Sovngarde in a story. You went there when you died. That meant they were never coming back. He'd hardly heard the next part, that since they couldn't keep him they'd decided to send him with a merchant caravan with instructions to find him a good home. Only that wasn't what happened. When the caravan reached Riften, the head of the caravan had taken him directly to Honorhall Orphanage and handed him over to a wrinkled, angry crone.

"Hrooooar!" Samuel tried it out. "Stupid name, really."

A sudden burning flamed in Hroar's chest. His forehead wrinkled and he sniffed his last tears away. "Take that back," he whispered lowly.

The older boy grinned at him. "You gonna make me?" He laughed.

The burning in Hroar's chest became a tight, painful ball. "Take. It. Back."

Samuel shook his head. "You're a kid. I don't have to."

A couple other children in the orphanage had shuffled over to the bed as they observed an argument starting up. Hroar stood up from his bed and raised his little fists. "I can fight you!"

Samuel laughed harder. "You don't stand a chance."

Hroar's cheeks flushed in embarrassment. He was too young to understand where his sudden rage came from. In later years he thought that it must have been the unfairness of it all that pushed him over the edge. He'd been slapped for nothing, his belongings rifled through and stolen, and then Samuel dared to mock the one thing his parents had left him—his name.

He rushed Samuel, fists pounding. Samuel didn't even fight back, just grabbed him round the shoulders as he pummeled as hard as he could. He hadn't gotten more than a few blows in when he was snatched away. Headmistress Grelod had reappeared, yanking him away from Samuel.

"You're a fighter, eh?" she'd barked out. She pushed him to the ground into a kneeling position next to Samuel's bed. Samuel hopped off and stood on the other side as she did so. She gripped Hroar's arms, laying them across the bed and positioning them so his palms were up. "There will be _no_ fighting here!" She pinned his arms down with one hand and raised the other that held a short strap. She brought the strap down across his palms. Hroar yelped and balled his fists.

"Open them!" the headmistress shouted.

Hroar's hands shook. He couldn't look at the crone that terrified him. Instead he looked at Samuel standing with his arms crossed over his chest. The boy didn't look happy or vindicated. His eyes were somber, his mouth grim. "Do it," he mouthed.

Hroar forced his hands open. Grelod laid into them until they were bright red and throbbing. Then as abruptly as she'd appeared, she'd left. Hroar had crumpled to the floor, trembling, his hands pulled into his chest, his tears begun anew. He heard footsteps walk up to him then stop.

"Here."

He looked up. Through his tears, he saw the older boy, Samuel, holding a bucket. Samuel set the bucket down in front of him. "Put them in there. It helps."

Hroar had forgotten his anger. He did as the boy said. Cool water dulled the throbbing.

"We all get it here," Samuel explained matter-of-factually. "You'll get used to it."

Hroar watched Samuel walk away. His seven year old brain couldn't even comprehend what "used to it" meant...

* * *

Hroar blinked and glanced around the dining table. He was the only one left. He considered the rest of his uneaten meal. He didn't feel like finishing it. His stomach churned uncomfortably. He rose and headed back towards his lab. Honorhall...When he'd first come here ten years ago, he'd suffered dreams about it, but Dimia had administered soothing tonics and he started to sleep peacefully through the night. He hadn't dreamed about it in a long time.

Hroar paused at the top of a flight of stairs. He hadn't meant to come this way. His lab was the other direction. _I'm just distracted_ , he excused himself, but his gaze stayed on the dark descent of the stairs that led to the cells. The voice from yesterday echoed in his mind: "I won't tell you!" "Never!" It grated on him. He knew it. He was sure he did. But that didn't make any sense. He'd never known a werewolf. A hagraven, yes. He smiled slightly and turned, going to his lab. That's what Francois had called Grelod. Hagraven for sure...

* * *

When Francois had come to Honorhall, Hroar had lived there for two years. Unlike Samuel's claim, he'd never become "used to it." Turned out Grelod relished abusing the newcomers to the orphanage. The first month had been the worst. Every little thing he failed at or messed up was met with swift retribution: slaps, kicks, straps, rods, belts, these became the norm. But it never mattered how many times she beat him; he never got used to it. He couldn't watch even when Grelod turned her attention to other orphans. He had to work not to cover his ears and shut out the cries and screams; he didn't want to look weak to Samuel.

Despite their rough introduction, Hroar discovered that the orphans relied on Samuel. Samuel had grown up in the orphanage, a victim of Grelod's abuse from the time he was born. That fact alone caused the others to look up to him. Samuel knew how Grelod worked, how best to survive and approached her with a sense of blasé. Hroar tried to mirror him. After six months he claimed he'd stopped being afraid. Grelod didn't scare him, he said. But whenever he heard that angry voice call his name, inside he quaked with fear. For two years he fell into the roll of pretending. He acted like he didn't care about Grelod, that he didn't need anyone's help, that he was just fine. Until Francois arrived.

Hroar remembered Francois' arrival vividly because of the shock it caused. All the orphans who had ever arrived at the orphanage had been dumped after their parents either died or disappeared. But Francois showed up _with_ his parents. Hroar had been in the larder at the time, sneaking food. They only got one meal a day, lunch, and by the evening, Hroar was always starving. He'd wait until Grelod retreated to her room and then sneak a snack as fast as he could and run back to his bed, munching under his covers. This day, he'd just grabbed a molding piece of bread off a shelf when he heard the door to the orphanage open. He'd frozen in his tracks right inside the door of the larder. Grelod must have left her room. If she caught him...

"I'm sorry, Francois, but this is for the best." The woman's voice that drifted into the kitchen from the entryway certainly wasn't Grelod's. It sounded too kind and sad.

"Don't worry, son. It won't be for long." That was a man's voice and now in the dining area. "Hello? Anyone here?"

Hroar didn't move. Grelod was sure to appear soon and he wouldn't have the time to make it to his bed.

"I'll go find someone." The man again.

Then a second later, the sound of Grelod emerging from her room. "What do you want?"

"Our boy..."

"Where is he?"

"Over here."

The sound of footsteps back to the dining area. Hroar backed up and crouched down, praying Grelod wouldn't come into the larder for some reason.

"This him?" Grelod asked.

"Yes. Francois." The woman's voice.

"You want a sibling, huh?"

"Oh...No."

"We have to go away for a time," the man said, then added hastily, "but we'll be back soon. We won't leave him here for long."

Hroar's mouth fell open. This boy's parents were leaving him _here_? What was wrong with them? Despite his fear, he crawled to the larder door and peered out. Grelod stood on the side of the table nearest him and the family on the other. A woman with long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail stood next to a heavily bearded, large man. The woman rested her hand on the shoulder of a boy with light blonde hair.

"I don't keep children with parents."

"We aren't from the area," the man explained. "We talked to the Jarl. She said to come here and you'd look after our boy."

Grelod put her hands on her hips. "How long will he be here?"

"Not long," the woman spoke up. "It will only be a few months at the most." She glanced nervously at her husband.

"Yes, only months," he confirmed.

Grelod sighed. "Well, you're lucky we got one bed open." Hroar watched as she walked around the side of the table and grabbed the boy's arm. "Alright then. I'll show you your bed."

"Oh, we'll come, too," the woman said. "We want to see him settled."

Grelod dropped the boy's arm and turned. Only Hroar saw the look of annoyance and disdain she flashed. "Fine. He'll sleep in here." The family followed Grelod into the living area.

Hroar stood. This was his one chance. He slipped out of the larder, the moldy bread stuffed into his shirt. He made it to the living area. Grelod was standing at the end of the bed across the room from Hroar's, but the large man was by her and blocked her view his direction. Hroar sidled along the other beds on his side, first Runa's, then Samuel's, who were both watching the goings on on the other side of the room. Samuel smirked at him when he saw he'd made it back without getting Grelod's attention. Hroar sat on his bed. He watched as the family put their son's belongings away in a chest, then hugged him, the woman kissing him and assuring him again they'd be back as soon as they could. Then the whole family walked back to the kitchen with him and into the entryway, out of view.

Runa bowed her head. "Poor boy. His own parents. Leaving him here."

Samuel laid down and said casually, "They won't be back."

"But they said..."

Samuel looked to Runa. "No one brings a kid here if they really want them."

Hroar remained silent. His thoughts were on what would happen when the parents were gone.

Grelod appeared back in the main room, dragging the boy by an arm. She hauled him to his bed and sat him down forcefully. "The rule here is you obey _me_ , got it?"

The boy nodded.

"And we don't allow all this here," Grelod went on, confiscating most of what the parents had packed in the chest.

"But..." the boy began.

"You trying to disobey?"

"N-no."

"Good. Cause you'll get it if I hear another word." She exited to her room and slammed the door.

The boy glanced for a moment around the room. His eyes ended up on Hroar, then turned back to his bed. He looked utterly defeated. He lay down on his side.

Hroar looked to Samuel. Samuel was already napping. Runa had moved off to the kitchen to clean up as Grelod had ordered earlier. The fifth bed was occupied by a girl and was across the room and diagonal from Hroar. The girl was a twin, but the other twin, a boy, had been given to a man a few weeks back. Since then she'd kept to herself. She wasn't a nice girl, always getting in trouble and arguing with the other orphans. Right now she was fully absorbed in her hands, picking at and chewing her nails.

Hroar stood. He'd thought of his own parents who had been absent so much, how it always hurt when they left him behind. And here was this boy, dropped off by his parents in this hell and Samuel was probably right; they'd never be back.

Hroar wandered over to the boy's bed. "Hey."

The boy sat up. "Hi."

"I'm Hroar."

"Francois Beaufort."

"You know...I'm sorry."

"About what?"

"Your parents."

"It's no big deal." Francois shrugged.

Hroar looked shocked. No big deal?

Francois noticed his look. "They'll be back soon."

Hroar didn't know what to say.

" _She_ seems annoying," Francois went on, pointing to Grelod's closed bedroom door.

Hroar gazed at his feet. "She's more than that," he mumbled.

"More than what?"

Hroar looked up. "Oh, she's just...she's not very nice."

"Well, I figured that out."

"And she has a lot of rules...and she doesn't want them broken."

"O-kay. Well, what are they?"

"Uh..." Hroar didn't know how to explain them. They were kind of arbitrary. "Well, she doesn't want us sneaking around, like getting food out of the larder." But he'd managed to break that one several times without her catching on.

"No sneaking. Got it. What else?"

"Um...Don't make a lot of noise. Don't eat with your mouth open. Don't cry." That was all Hroar could articulate at the moment.

"I think I can avoid those."

Hroar stood there uncertainly. "But, if you break the rules...she...well she..."

"She punishes you?"

Hroar nodded.

Francois shrugged again. "Okay. That makes sense I guess."

"No, but you don't understand, she..."

"She'll beat you till you want to die," Samuel's voice came from across the room. He was sitting up and looking at them.

Francois looked to Hroar who was nodding silently. "Well, then," he said, "I won't get in trouble"...

* * *

Hroar had made it back to his lab. He sat down in front of his vials full of various chemicals. He reached underneath the table to his satchel and pulled out some ingredients he'd collected last week. He started sorting them out for various experiments, but his hands eventually dropped to the table as his mind was caught in reverie. Trouble. It could never be avoided for long, not at Honorhall...

* * *

Two months passed and so far, Francois hadn't been beaten. Grelod had slapped him upside the head a few times, but nothing more. It was a surprise to all in the orphanage. Hroar thought maybe it was because Grelod feared his parents _would_ come back. Or maybe Francois got off because Grelod had spent the height of her cruelty on the girl twin. The girl had run away not long after Francois' arrival, been brought back by the guards and beaten horribly, then locked away. The next day she was gone and they didn't know what had happened. Francois actually speculated Grelod had killed the girl. He said he wouldn't put it past her. He may not have been on the receiving end of Grelod's worst abuse, but he'd seen it. That's when he'd called Grelod a hagraven. She had to be one, he insisted, or at least part one. Runa argued with Francois and said she'd seen the girl in town with someone, but only from the back so they weren't sure if Grelod was a murderer or not.

Or maybe Grelod left Francois alone because he had such a submissive and gentle personality. Everyone in the orphanage liked him. He was good-natured, kind-hearted and could say funny things. He got along with everyone, but especially Hroar.

From his first night in the orphanage on, Francois had taken to sitting or playing in the entryway, awaiting the return of his parents. Hroar had joined him at the end of his first week. He was intrigued by a drawing Francois had marked out on the floor with a white rock, a square with a grid inside it. As he watched, Francois kept throwing small rocks into it.

"What's that?" Hroar finally ventured.

"A game," Francois answered. "Father taught it to me."

"You'd better not leave it there. Grelod might see it."

Francois smiled up at him. "I wipe it away when I leave." He held up a rag. "Want to play?"

"Sure." Hroar sat down. Francois explained that you threw the rocks into the square and different places on the grid had different point values. You had to reach a certain number without going over. The first game, Francois helped him along. When Hroar won, he smiled as Hroar eagerly asked to play again.

The second game, Francois engaged him in conversation as they played. "How'd you end up here?"

Hroar threw a rock. He marked the points on the floor with Francois' white rock. "Parents died. People I stayed with lost their farm. Sent me to Riften."

Francois, who had thrown his own rock, marked his points. "Sorry they died."

Hroar shrugged.

"Where did you live before here?"

"Falkreath Hold."

"Really? We traveled all around Falkreath."

"You did?" Hroar looked over at him. "You ever visit the capital?"

"Yeah, lots of times."

"The farm was there."

"I think I remember a farm somewhere near there. Don't think I remember you, though." He pointed to the game and Hroar threw a rock, then marked the points. "Your name. Hroar. It's different."

Hroar bit his lip. "Yeah."

"Why?"

Hroar didn't know if he wanted to say. He hadn't discussed his name since the first day he'd come here and Grelod had wrecked his hands with her strap. "My mother gave it to me."

"So, is it like a family name?"

"No."

Francois refrained from throwing his rock. "Well, what's it mean then?"

"It's kind of stupid."

"No it isn't."

Hroar cocked his head. "You _like_ it?"

"It's just a name. How is that stupid?"

"It's just, it's kind of silly."

"Come on. Tell me."

Hroar sighed. He might as well get it over with. "Mama said she wanted me to be strong like a lion so she called me 'Hroar' after a lion roaring."

Francois laughed. Hroar stood up and threw a rock against the far wall. He made for the dining area, but Francois stopped him with a hand on his wrist. "I think it's a good name."

"Then why'd you laugh?" Hroar asked angrily, pulling his wrist out of Francois' grasp.

"I didn't think that would be the reason. I didn't expect it, that's all. But I like it. Really. I think it's lots better than mine. You should spend life as Francois and have everyone making fun of you for having a 'girl's name.'" He tossed his rock into the square.

"It's not a girl's name," Hroar said, kneeling back down next to Francois who handed him another rock.

"No, but it sure sounds like one. I've been called Frances a million times."

Hroar smiled. "Well, I think it's okay." He threw the rock. Francois smiled back.

From that day forward, Hroar joined Francois in his daily ritual of waiting for his parents in the entryway. He didn't think Francois' parents would ever show up, but he wasn't going to tell him that. Soon Hroar and Francois were inseparable. They became fast friends, playing together, telling jokes, sharing stories. Whenever Grelod beat Hroar, Francois would talk to him afterward, sit on his bed and tell him why he shouldn't have been beaten and argue against anything Grelod had said to him. For the first time in a long time, Hroar felt life was worth living. He'd never had a best friend, and surprisingly he'd found one in the worst place on earth. It was a good time until...

* * *

Hroar ran a hand over his face. Why was he remembering all this stuff now? He hadn't thought about Francois in years. He looked down at his ingredients. _Concentrate_ , he reprimanded himself. He finished sorting them then pulled out a mortar and pestle. He picked up some lavender and began to crush it. An unbidden image flashed through his mind and his breath caught in his throat. It may have been years since he'd thought about Francois, but he'd never be able to scour the memory of Francois' first trouble. If only Francois had been willing to give up.


	3. Francois

Hroar continued to crush the lavender until it was a pulpy mass. He grumbled to himself and shook out the contents. He should have stopped minutes ago. He acquired some more flowers from his worktable. He tried to shake the image of Francois shackled helpless, but it wouldn't leave him. "Argh!" he finally exclaimed, dropping the pestle. He put the heels of his hands to his closed eyes. Why now? Why did this torment him now? "Go away!" he commanded, snatching up the pestle and aggressively grinding the lavender...

* * *

Four months after Francois arrived and still he sat in the entryway. Hroar continued to join him, but he could tell his friend's patience was wearing thin. One night Hroar found him sitting despondently on the floor, just staring at the door.

"Hey, want to play?" he asked, sitting down next to his friend and holding up a collection of sticks with detailed etchings. They'd carved the sticks themselves, creating their own game.

Francois shook his head, eyes riveted on the door.

Hroar dropped the sticks between his legs. Francois clung to the hope of his parents' returning. He was sure any day now they'd show up. But Hroar saw how Samuel rolled his eyes when Francois talked like that. Samuel had been around long enough to know Francois would never get what he wanted.

Really, Hroar couldn't blame Francois. His parents sounded so nice when Francois talked about them. They had traveled around Skyrim just like Hroar's parents, only they took Francois with them. They were poor, Francois explained, so his father had to get jobs where he could find them. Still, they never lacked for food, even when his father wasn't employed. His father was a good hunter, Francois said proudly, going out every night and showing back up in the morning with fresh meat. His mother was a quiet woman who had met Francois' every need. She'd hiked with him and taught him all about the natural world. Francois knew more about Skyrim than anyone Hroar had ever met. He could identify all kinds of flora and fauna. If Hroar had been more reflective, he would have been forced to admit he was quite jealous of all the time his friend had spent with his parents. What he wouldn't have given to have traveled with his own parents.

Hroar attempted to make Francois laugh. "Hey, didn't Grelod look like a hagraven today? Did you see the way she twisted her ugly face when Samuel said her new dress looked like horse dung?"

Francois remained silent.

Hroar sighed. He understood his friend was upset, but this was boring. After a few minutes he spoke up again. "Hey, maybe we can..."

"Four months," Francois spoke, interrupting him. "Four months and nothing."

"Well...maybe something happened," Hroar said, trying to cheer his friend. "Maybe they got delayed or something."

"They said a few months," Francois went on as if Hroar hadn't said a word. "It's been a few months."

Hroar worried his lip. _It's because they aren't coming back_. Out loud he said, "Don't worry about it."

Francois rounded on him. "Don't worry about it? I'm stuck in this hellhole!"

Hroar was taken aback. Francois never acted so angry. "Well, I am, too," he protested.

"You don't have parents," Francois retorted. "I do. I don't have to be here."

Hroar's eyebrows creased. "I don't want to be here!"

Francois blew out slowly. "I know."

In all honesty, Hroar didn't want Francois' parents to ever come back. He didn't want to lose the one friend he had in this place. "Look...When people bring kids here, they don't mean to come get them again."

Francois' eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?" he asked lowly.

"I mean...they aren't coming back."

Francois stiffened his jaw. "You're wrong."

Hroar lowered his gaze from his friend's scowl. There was silence for a time.

"Letters," Francois said suddenly.

Hroar looked up. There was a glimmer of hope in Francois' voice. "Letters?"

Francois' face had brightened. "Yeah. I'm sure they would write if they couldn't come."

Hroar wasn't sure of any such thing.

Francois put his hand characteristically to his chin. "The hagraven gets stuff from couriers." His brow furrowed. "I bet she's gotten a letter and hidden it."

"Maybe," Hroar spoke doubtfully.

Francois abruptly stood and walked into the dining area, peering around the wall into the living area. Hroar followed. "She's in there now," Francois said, "but she'll leave some time."

"You can't go in there!" Hroar whispered harshly.

Francois glanced back at him. "She takes off some nights, you know that."

"But she might come back when you're in there," Hroar argued.

Francois' face set determinedly and he looked back to Grelod's bedroom door. "I have to try. You'll stand watch, right?"

Hroar swallowed slowly. It was such a dangerous thing to do. "I don't know. Maybe we shouldn't..."

Francois turned to him. "Come on, Hroar! You're a lion, not a mouse, right?"

Hroar took the bait. "Okay. I'll stand watch."

"Good," Francois concluded confidently.

Hroar didn't know if "good" was the right word to use...

* * *

Hroar had given up preparing his ingredients. He'd decided he had to get out of his room, go for a walk. He climbed the stairs to the entrance of the underground hall. He nodded as he passed a guard, then stepped out into a deep ravine. He heard the waterfall before he saw it. They were well hidden in this part of the mountains. He walked down the path and out of the ravine. The waterfall fell to his left, its noise deafening. He paced passed it and down, then paused at the bottom by a large pool. He knelt down to splash water on his face, then contemplated his reflection. He fingered the goatee on his chin.

"I'm not a child," he reminded himself. He didn't live at Honorhall any more. He didn't have to be afraid.

"Why are you out here?"

Hroar groaned softly. Not her. He stood up and looked over at Lucia who was marching confidently toward the hidden hall. "Just a walk," he growled.

"You know we're not supposed to hang around out here," Lucia scolded.

"No one can see me," he shot back.

"They can if they're up there," she said, stopping next to him and pointing up to the waterfall's ledge.

"Well, they aren't," Hroar said. His gaze fell on Lucia's belt. A fresh tail hung from it.

Lucia slid a hand along the dark black tail when she caught Hroar's gaze. "Killed it this morning. I couldn't capture it alone. You've never killed, have you?"

Hroar firmed his lips into a line and looked away.

Lucia laughed. "Want to come with me to the cells? That poor little werewolf is still down there. Want to run him through?"

Hroar strode away around the pool. Lucia's laughter faded as she continued up the path toward the hidden entrance. Hroar rubbed at his forehead. The image of the beast down below chained to the board passed through his mind. That beast...that voice, its cadence, its accent...Hroar stopped dead in his tracks. It sounded so much like...No, it couldn't be possible...

* * *

The plan was simple. The next time Grelod left the orphanage at night, Francois would enter her room. Hroar would stand guard in the dining area. If Grelod showed up before Francois came out, Hroar would shout out a coded warning. Francois said the plan couldn't fail.

Three nights after they came up with the plan, they had the chance to use it. Grelod gave the orphans their nightly lecture, telling them how worthless they were, making them agree with her, then commanding them to bed. They crawled under their blankets. Hroar kept his eyes on the crone. She didn't go back to her room. She wandered towards the kitchen and soon after he heard the entrance door open and close. She'd decided to go out tonight. Sometimes she stayed out for hours. Not always, but lots of the time.

Hroar sat up and saw Francois sitting up as well. His friend put a finger to his lips. They'd agreed to wait awhile to make sure this was one of Grelod's longer nights out. Time passed at a crawl. Finally, Francois rose from his bed and made for Grelod's room. Hroar jumped up and headed to the dining area. He leaned against the wall next to the entryway, eyes on the front door, ears listening for any indication Francois had completed his quest. After a little bit of time, he peeked around the wall into the living area. Francois wasn't back and Grelod's door was cracked open. A form passed by the crack: Francois searching. _Hurry! How long does it take to find a letter?!_ His foot tapped impatiently on the floor.

Although the whole escapade was probably only a few minutes, it felt to Hroar that he stood by the wall for an hour. He'd just gone to peek into the living area again when he heard a sound that stopped his heart—the front door was opening. He dashed to a kitchen table. Grelod came in. Her eyes flashed when she saw him.

"Why are you out of bed?"

"I couldn't sleep," Hroar declared quite loudly.

"You know you aren't supposed to be up," the crone growled, grabbing the back of his shirt and hauling him into the living area. Hroar's eyes went to Francois' bed. His heart sank. It was empty. He dropped all his weight to the floor so Grelod had to let go of him.

"Get up!" she yelled, kicking at him.

"My ankle. It hurts," he complained. Grelod's back was to her room. He saw the door open wider and Francois slip out.

"I don't care," Grelod said. "Get in bed now!" Samuel and Runa were coming awake by now with all the racket. Francois was closing the door and Hroar saw a parchment in his hand.

"I'll try," he said. He made to stand, but then fell down again, knocking into Grelod.

"Clumsy oaf!" Grelod yelled. She grabbed him by the shirt again and over to his bed, tossing him in. Hroar looked across the room. Francois was in his bed. He breathed out in relief.

"Get out again and you get the belt!" Grelod retreated to her room, shutting her door behind her.

Hroar looked across at Francois, grinning, but his friend was covered in his blanket and turned towards the fire. Hroar guessed he was reading whatever he had managed to find in Grelod's room.

"What was that all about?" a voice whispered next to him.

Hroar looked to Samuel. "Francois wanted something in there."

Runa widened her eyes. "You two are idiots."

"Well, it worked," Hroar proclaimed.

"Or not," Samuel said lowly. Hroar followed his eyes. Grelod had reemerged from her room. She made for Francois' bed immediately. She pulled off the blanket and snatched a piece of paper out of his hand.

"How dare you sneak into my room!"

Francois glared angrily at her. "It's mine!"

Hroar watched in horror as his friend grasped at the piece of paper. Grelod responded by slapping him hard across the face, causing Francois to let go. She stomped over to the fire and tossed the paper in.

"No!" Francois cried out, standing up from his bed. "I need to read it!"

"It's not for you!"

"It is! They sent it to me!"

Grelod grabbed Francois by his ear and pulled him towards the room right next to his bed. Hroar swallowed hard. They called it the punishment room. Grelod took orphans in there when she wanted to do her worst to them. Sometimes she'd lock the door and leave you there in the dark for hours or days.

"Runa! Get a candle!"the crone commanded as she threw Francois into the room and followed him in.

Runa stood up from her bed, eyes downcast. "Don't," Hroar squeaked out.

Samuel looked incredulously at Hroar. "Get it, Runa." The girl walked to the fire and picked up a candle from a basket to light it. "It wouldn't change anything even if she didn't," Samuel explained to Hroar. "You know that."

Hroar gripped his blanket tightly as he watched Runa walk to the punishment room, disappear inside, then come back out. She went to shut the door, but Grelod's harsh voice yelled again. "Leave it open!"

Runa shuffled back to her bed. Hroar tried to catch her eye, but she wouldn't look at him. Hroar stared at the open door.

"Get them off, now!"

"It's not fair!"

Another hard slap rang out. "Now!" A pause, then the sound of shackles being opened and closed.

"No one goes into my room!" Grelod's voice shouted, followed by the sharp strike of a rod. Hroar's stomach was in his throat.

Francois cried out, but then spoke. "You had no right to keep it! They sent it to me!" Another strike, another cry.

"They will never come for you!" Grelod's voice argued.

"They said they are!" Strike, cry.

"They lie! You're nothing but a brat to them. They left you here. They don't care about you."

Several strikes and groaning from Francois. "They'll...come...They will," he spoke, quieter now and gasping between the words.

"Foolish trash." The conversation stopped but the beating, punctuated by Francois' cries and moans, went on. Hroar covered his ears and closed his eyes. The beating muffled. After what seemed an eternity, it stopped. Hroar dropped his hands and opened his eyes, only to see Grelod emerging from the room and barreling towards him, the long rod in her hand.

"Don't you ever help him again!" she screeched, swinging with the rod. Hroar covered his head and balled himself up in his bed. He yelped as several sharp stings assaulted his body in rapid succession. Then Grelod retreated to her bedroom, slamming and locking the door behind her.

Hroar straightened out in the bed, muttering, "Ow," as the stinging from the rod lingered.

"You shouldn't have done it," Samuel mumbled next to him. Hroar looked over to see the older boy going back to sleep. Runa was turned on her side away from Hroar's gaze. Hroar felt affronted. Who was Samuel to lecture him? Hadn't he once done even more for Runa?

Hroar stood, ignoring the pain, and moved slowly to the punishment room door. He heard quiet sobbing. He stepped around the doorframe. His heart stuttered. His friend knelt on the floor at the back of the room, wrists shackled to the wall, head bowed forwards against it. He was clad only in his shirt and underwear. The entire length of his backside from the waist down was covered in welts.

Hroar bit his lip. He'd been beaten like this a few times. It hurt like hell. He recalled his first day in the orphanage and backed out into the main room. He strode determinedly to the kitchen. He didn't care what Grelod had said; he'd help his friend whether she liked it or not. He found a bucket and poured some water from a pitcher into it. He walked back to the punishment room and right up to Francois. "This will help," he muttered, upturning the bucket so that water cascaded over Francois' wounds.

Francois sucked in a breath. "Thank...you."

Hroar sat down next to his friend, back against the wall. Francois' crying gradually ceased and made way for deep breaths. Finally he lifted his head to Hroar. "Sorry."

Hroar raised his eyebrows. "For what?"

"Making you help me."

"I wanted to. What did it say?"

"They're going to come. Maybe two more months." Francois rolled his eyes around the punishment room. "They'll get me out of here."

Hroar bowed his head, torn. Maybe Francois' parents would come and get him out of this hellhole. Francois would escape, but Hroar would still be stuck here.

"I'll ask them to take you, too," Francois spoke quietly.

Hroar looked up, wondering if Francois had read his mind.

"We'll both get out."

Hroar thought such a thing sounded too good to be true...

* * *

Hroar paced back and forth by the pool, the memory of Francois chained in the punishment room as fresh as if it had happened yesterday. And maybe that was because it _had_ happened yesterday, or happened again. His mind replayed Grelod's beating of his friend and he heard that voice, the cadence of it and tinged with the hint of an Imperial accent. It was a child's voice, but yesterday, had it been a man's?

Hroar shook his head. It didn't make sense. The beast down below in the cells had to be someone else, another Imperial in Skyrim. It couldn't be Francois. It couldn't.

Hroar stopped pacing. There was only one way to be sure. He hastened back towards the entrance of the hall...

* * *

Once Grelod had severely beaten Francois, he was no longer safe. The next couple weeks found him at her mercy several times. Hroar guessed she was now sure his parents wouldn't turn up. Francois had procured only one letter. What if they had sent another and it said something different? Hroar kept his thoughts to himself, not wanting to crush his friend's hope.

Eventually, Francois stopped sitting in the entryway. He never explained why and Hroar didn't ask. His friend grew more despondent. Maybe it was because his parents still didn't show or maybe it was because he now suffered greatly under Grelod. Whatever the reason, Francois changed. He lost all humor. He was still fun to be around and play with, but the mood had changed, gotten darker somehow.

Perhaps Grelod would have continued to try to destroy all Francois' hope, but he was saved when another orphan was dropped off, a boy their same age named Aventus. Aventus was quiet, shy and sad—the perfect target for a vicious hagraven. He got his first belting within a week, but instead of capitulating to Grelod like they all had, he turned resolute. All the other orphans were shocked and a bit impressed when Aventus stopped crying out whenever Grelod beat him. Thus began a great battle of wills between Grelod and Aventus. Hroar wasn't sure who would win.

Aventus lucked out, too. He got a reprieve when the Jarl assigned an assistant to the orphanage, Constance Michel. Grelod backed off then for a couple months, probably unsure what Constance would do if she witnessed the orphans' abuse. It was a good time. Constance gave them more food, told them stories at night, even tucked them in. But it didn't last. Grelod soon fell back to her old ways and Constance it turned out was as weak as she was kind. She didn't have the backbone to stand up to the elderly headmistress.

Of course, Grelod targeted Aventus. And still Aventus kept silent. Tears could be streaming down his face, but he'd bite his cheeks and not make a sound. Hroar didn't know how he managed it. Then came a night when Grelod did something none of them had ever imagined even in their worst nightmares.

Constance had left the orphanage for a short time to visit a sick friend. At the end of the day, they stood by their beds and Grelod lectured. But instead of telling them how awful they were, she declared they couldn't defy her and no one would win if they took her on. Hroar knew she meant Aventus. She turned to the boy and gave him instructions to kneel at the end of his bed. She ordered the other orphans to line up across from the bed and warned them that if they moved at all, they'd be next. As Hroar ambled over to stand where they'd been directed, he watched Grelod pull off Aventus' nightshirt, then start tying his wrists to his footboard. This was something she'd never done before.

Francois stepped next to Hroar and a concerned gaze passed between them. Something awful was about to happen, they knew it, but what? Grelod picked up a bag she'd carried into the room. She grasped something inside and shook it out, the bag falling to the floor. Hroar couldn't help but gasp aloud. Grelod held a whip with several cords in her hand. This couldn't be happening. She couldn't do this. She wouldn't. But she did. As the orphans watched, she whipped Aventus until blood flowed and he lost the battle, screaming and begging for mercy.

Hroar had stood stock still, unable to look away. It ended when Aventus fell unconscious and Grelod stuffed the whip back into the bag, then left the orphanage, but not before ordering them to, "Deal with him." The orphans just stood there for several seconds, reeling from what they had just witnessed. As always, it was Samuel who finally took the lead.

"Hroar, go check the door."

Hroar blinked a couple times, then moved towards the kitchen. His legs felt like jelly. He made it to the front door and pulled at it. It didn't budge. He turned, trying to keep his balance. He stumbled back to the living area. Francois and Samuel had untied Aventus and managed to lay him on his bed. Hroar's stomach flipped at the sight of the unfortunate boy's bloodied back.

"She barred...the door," he reported to Samuel between short breaths. He was starting to see stars. "I can't...open it."

Francois put an arm around Hroar's shoulders and directed him to his own bed. They sat down, Hroar with his head on his knees. He breathed in and out slowly, trying to regain control over his body.

"Mum and papa have got to come back," Francois murmured.

Hroar turned his head to look up at his friend. Francois was staring at Aventus' bed.

"If she'll do this..." Francois' voice faded.

Hroar wiped a hand over his eyes. Who would be next? He began to shake. Maybe he'd soon find himself strung up and whipped bloody.

As it was, Grelod actually calmed down. Winning her battle with Aventus seemed to satiate her abusive desires. That was, until Aventus accomplished something Hroar thought impossible. Three weeks after his whipping, Aventus ran away. He'd gone to the market with Constance and taken off when Riften's gates opened for a merchant. The guards hadn't caught him. Grelod was livid. At first she took her fury out on Runa who had been the nicest to Aventus. But soon it was all of them.

On one particular day, Hroar and Francois had lagged behind in the courtyard to finish a game before coming in for lunch. Grelod was standing inside the door when they entered, leather belt already in her hand. She screamed a bunch, then made them bend over Runa's bed. The belting was so bad, Hroar did more than cry; he screamed. When it was over, Grelod walked them to the punishment room, then shut the door and locked it. Hroar gingerly lowered himself to the floor, laying down on his stomach, balling his fists against the pain. Ever since Aventus had run away, Grelod had gotten worse and worse. Small offenses, no matter how insignificant, were met with vicious retribution.

Hroar heard Francois sniffling next to him. Poor Francois. This had been his third beating of the day. Grelod had strapped him just that morning for getting up too slowly, then he'd gotten the belt for mentioning his parents. Hroar spoke softly. "She can't get us in here." That was the only consolation about being locked up; Grelod usually didn't come back for hours.

"We've got to get out of here," Francois whispered.

Hroar bit his lip. Francois didn't sit in the entryway anymore, but he still lived in hope of his parents showing up. "Francois...They aren't going to come."

There was a moment of silence and then, "I know."

Hroar sighed. He'd finally admitted it.

"That's why I have to find them."

Hroar stared towards his friend's voice. "How?"

"Run away."

Hroar blinked. "She'll catch you."

"Aventus got away."

"Aventus was lucky."

"If he can do it, we can do it."

Hroar worried his lip. "But Mary didn't." The girl twin, the one who had run away and been brought back, beaten and disappeared.

"I'm going to leave."

Hroar's heartbeat quickened. Francois was serious. But it was far too dangerous. He didn't like being beaten either, but it was better than being murdered.

Francois kept his word. A week later he informed Hroar he was going that night. He just needed help climbing over the courtyard wall since Grelod had taken to locking the front door. It took some cajoling, but Hroar finally agreed. They sneaked out to the courtyard at midnight. The moonlight was bright, making the wall easy to see. They stood in front of it, Hroar trying not to cry like a girl that his best friend was leaving.

"Come with me," Francois tried again.

Hroar wished he had the bravery, but he didn't. He kept imagining escaping, the guards bringing him back and Grelod procuring her whip from who knows where and flogging him till he died. He just didn't have the luck for this to work out right.

"Just don't go," Hroar pleaded. "If they catch you..."

"They won't."

"They might."

"Come on, Hroar. Just come."

"If we get caught..."

"Stop being a mouse!"

Hroar lowered his head.

Francois sighed. "Sorry. I just don't want to leave you here, but I can't stay." A kind hand touched Hroar's shoulder. "You don't have to come, but I'll be back for you. I promise."

Hroar looked up. "Okay." Francois held out his hand and they shook.

Hroar glanced up at the wall, then lowered himself to the ground on one knee. Francois used his knee as a step, then climbed onto his shoulders. Hroar rose slowly. Francois pulled himself up the wall. His feet left Hroar's shoulders. Hroar watched his friend disappear, rubbing at his suddenly wet eyes. It was the last time he ever saw Francois...

* * *

Until perhaps now. Hroar descended the winding steps to the cells. He strode down to the one he'd entered yesterday. No sound came from inside. He attracted the attention of a guard. "Jarin! I need to check the mark on the prisoner."

Jarin unhooked the keys on his belt and opened the door. "Knock when you want out," he said. Hroar nodded. He entered and the door was locked behind him.

Hroar scrutinized the man lashed to the tilted board. He looked worse off than yesterday. Cuts and bruises ran the length of his body. His left eye was swollen and blue, likewise his mouth. The muzzle was still attached to his head, just in case he morphed unexpectedly. He didn't stir. Hroar assumed, and hoped, that he only slept.

Hroar approached slowly. The man's hair was blonde, chin length and stringy with grease. Days of stubble clung to his cheeks and chin. He didn't look like Francois, but then he was a grown man, not a child.

Hroar stalled. This was preposterous. There was no way this beast was his childhood friend. He'd just imagined such an absurd possibility. He made to turn back to the door, but the man began to stir, shifting and groaning. Hroar backed up. What had he been thinking approaching a werewolf alone?

The man's eyes fluttered open. He blinked several times, then scanned the room. He sighted Hroar. His eyes hardened. "Kill me," he mumbled thickly through his wounded lips. "I'm not going to tell you."

That voice. Now that he'd connected the dots, it sounded so much like his friend. Deeper, but still Francois. _No. Not Francois. Can't be._ Hroar moved to the door and raised his hand to knock.

"Wait!" Hroar looked back to the man, his eyes now wide. "You put that mark on me."

Hroar found his voice. "Yes."

"That woman called you Hroar...the Lion."

Hroar's heartbeat quickened. "What of it?"

"I didn't think it could be. I didn't think..." The man's eyes blinked rapidly and he groaned again.

"You didn't think what?" Hroar pressed, wanting to hear, yet dreading the answer.

The man forced his head up. His eyes bore into Hroar. "It's been so long. Hroar. I'm Francois. From Honorhall."

Hroar gulped. So it was true. His childhood friend was here, tied up in a cell and a werewolf. How had it happened? And why? What had gone so wrong when he'd left Honorhall?

The door to the cell suddenly opened. Hroar whirled to the door, intending to reprimand the guard for opening the door before he'd finished, but it was Lucia who entered. She raised her eyebrows in surprise, then smiled mockingly. "I can't believe it. You actually took my advice." She stepped up next to him. "You can't do it yet, though. We're going to give it one more chance."

Hroar glanced back at Francois. He'd dropped his head again and closed his eyes. Hroar felt anger flame in his chest. He stared down Lucia. "I didn't come to kill him."

Lucia crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back. "Oh, really. What then?"

"I just wanted to...check the mark."

Lucia frowned. "You've never done that before. Why are you really here?"

"I just...I wanted to..."

"Admit it!" Lucia insisted. "You really want to know what it feels like to take life in your hands and let it run dry."

Hroar didn't want to do any such thing. He'd never been able to kill. Never. And Dimia had been okay with that. She understood. Lucia couldn't.

Hroar pushed open the cell door to leave. Lucia caught his arm. "You want to kill it? If it doesn't talk, we're killing it tonight. I'll leave it for you if you want."

Hroar shook off her grasp and stepped into the hall. He practically ran back to his lab. When he reached it, he slammed the door and locked it, then collapsed in a chair. They were going to kill Francois. Tonight he'd be dead.

Hroar put a hand to his mouth. Unless...he let him go. But that would be betrayal. It would fly in the face of everything Dimia had taught him. But to let Francois die—wasn't that also betrayal?

Hroar put his elbows on his table and his head in his hands. How could he ever choose between his friend and his savior?


	4. Choice

Hroar had spent the last several hours in turmoil. He'd paced back and forth so many times in his lab his legs ached from the repetition. His mind swayed back and forth, justifying the idea of helping Francois, then berating himself for even considering betraying the order and especially Dimia. It didn't matter that she was dead; he still owed her everything.

Now Hroar strode down a dim hallway towards the common living quarters. He didn't come this way often. Dimia's room that he'd inherited was on the other side of the hall with the leaders of the order. He lived there only because Dimia had insisted in the event of her death he be permitted to stay there.

Hroar found the door he was looking for. He paused in front of it, tightened his jaw for a moment, took a breath and pounded on the door. Only a couple seconds passed and the door opened, revealing a surprised Lucia.

"Why are you here?" she asked.

"I want to do it," Hroar answered quietly.

Lucia lifted an eyebrow. "Do what?"

Hroar glared at her. "You _know_."

Lucia smiled wickedly. "Are you sure you want to? You can't change your mind if you do."

It wasn't really true, Hroar knew. He could change his mind. He'd just look like a coward for doing so. "I won't change my mind."

Lucia began to close the door. "Fine. I'll meet you there in an hour."

"No," Hroar stated forcefully, hand on the door to keep it open.

"Excuse me?"

"I want to do it by myself."

Lucia snorted. "I'm not going to help you. You need a weapon?"

Hroar patted a dagger sheathed at his side. "I have one."

Lucia laughed shortly. "You chose up close and personal. Never thought you'd have it in you, Hroooar."

Hroar glowered at Lucia's continued mockery, but forged ahead. "I don't need you to be there. I want to do by myself, I mean, alone."

Lucia narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "Why?"

"I don't anyone to see it!"

Lucia burst into sniggering laughter. "You're that embarrassed?" She shook her head. "He wants to kill, but doesn't want people to watch. If Dimia could see you now."

Hroar felt anger rising in his chest. Here he was in the worst position of his life and this hotheaded, arrogant woman wouldn't lay off. Hroar shoved open the door, grabbed Lucia's left wrist and backed her into a wall. "Don't you _ever_ mention Dimia to me again!"

Lucia snarled and brought up a knee, catching Hroar in the stomach. He doubled over, scowling up at her.

"You want to do it alone, then do it alone!" Lucia shouted. "Get out of my room!"

Hroar retreated outside and the door banged shut behind him. He massaged his stomach. Blasted woman! He stomped back down the hall, then slowed. Why was he in a hurry? The sooner he made it to the cell, the sooner he had to face his unwelcome task...

* * *

"I'm here for an orphan. His name is Hroar."

Even through the closed punishment room door, Hroar heard those blessed words. A woman had spoken, her voice strong, confident and loud.

"We don't have a boy here named that." Grelod.

Hroar knelt wide eyed in the dark, confused as to who would ask for him and unsure if this was a good thing or a bad thing. The woman's brash voice spoke again. "You're a liar, eh? I've already talked to Jarl Black-Briar and she informed me Hroar was here."

Hroar wished he could have seen Grelod's face as someone dared to call her a liar.

"Come back tonight," the hagraven insisted.

"I will take him _now_."

There was some incoherent grumbling from Grelod.

" _Where_ is he?"

"I'll get him."

Sounds of Grelod's heavy footsteps. The punishment room door opened. Hroar blinked against the light of the orphanage. He'd been in the dark since yesterday morning. Grelod leaned down and removed his gag. Hroar swallowed and moved his tongue around in his dry mouth. Yesterday Grelod had overheard him calling her an "old hag." He'd been tightly gagged and left alone in the punishment room to await Grelod's further "discipline." She'd sworn to "find a way to make sure your wicked tongue never speaks evil again." He'd lived at the height of fear since he'd been shut in, images of Aventus' whipping coming back to haunt him.

Grelod grasped Hroar's chin forcefully, her eyes drilling into him. "If you say one word about this..."

"I...won't," Hroar vowed, mouth too stiff to speak properly.

Grelod stood up and opened the shackles, releasing Hroar's wrists. His arms fell like dead weights. Grelod gripped the back of his shirt, forcing him to his feet. "Get up! Get out there!"

Hroar carefully put one foot in front of the other. He was sure he would fall if he walked too quickly. He felt a poke in his back and Grelod propelled him forward to the dining area. When he reached it, Hroar's gaze fell on an impressive woman standing behind a table. She was solid, tall, muscular. She wore blue robes and a mace at her side. Her face was beginning to wrinkle, but her gray eyes were bright. Her brown hair was cut short, barely falling to her ears. She tilted her head when she saw him.

"Take him," Grelod grumbled out.

"His things? Go get them."

Hroar glanced at Grelod, curious how she would take being ordered about. The crone looked livid, but walked back to the living area anyway. Hroar gazed up at the woman, both excited and afraid. Who was she? Why did she want him?

"Hroar?" the woman asked.

Hroar nodded.

"I'm your aunt. I've come to claim you."

His aunt? He had an aunt?

"That is, if you want to come with me."

"Y-yes..."

"You sound uncertain."

"I don't have an aunt."

The woman smiled broadly. "But you do. I am your mother's sister. You don't know me, but that will change."

The woman, apparently his aunt, scanned him up and down. Her brows knit. She drew closer to him and put a gentle hand to his chin, tilting his head up. Her touch was rough with callouses. Her thumb ran the length of his mouth, pausing at the corners. Hroar winced when she did so. The corners of his mouth were painfully raw. She dropped her hand from his chin and next took both his hands in hers. Her hands were quite warm. She growled in her throat as she lifted his hands and observed his wrists. Grelod came back into the room. The woman dropped his hands.

"What have you done to this boy?"

Grelod's face constricted oddly. "What do you mean?"

The woman turned Hroar around, gestured to his face, then held up one of his hands and pointed to his wrist. "His cuts are unmistakable."

Grelod glared at the woman. "He's a lout, this one. Can't respect his elders."

The woman snatched Hroar's bag of belongings out of Grelod's hand. "I think, perhaps, _you_ are not worthy of an ounce of _his_ respect." The woman gripped his hand and marched with him to the door of the orphanage.

The last time Hroar saw Grelod she was gaping at having been insulted. He preferred to think of her that way to this day...

* * *

Hroar reached the cell door. He paused before it. No one should be inside. The execution had been scheduled for an hour from now. He could face Francois alone. He could do what he had to without an audience to view it...

* * *

Hroar's aunt hadn't said much as they'd traveled. After leaving Honorhall, they'd gone to the stables outside the walls. Hroar had gazed at the forest as if he'd never seen it before. He hadn't been outside Riften for five years.

"I borrowed a horse," his aunt explained, drawing his attention. "Have you ridden?"

Hroar shook his head.

"Then I'll help you mount." She directed his foot into the stirrup and aided him in swinging up. She climbed up behind him when he was secure and lifted the reins in her hands, her arms around him. She clucked with her tongue and the horse took to the road.

As they rode, Hroar gawked at the lands they passed. He'd forgotten the beauty of nature. He marveled at the free-singing of the birds, the vibrant colors of flowers against a green background, the babbling crystal blue rivers. He wondered at the travelers they passed on the road, where they were going and why. The farther they traveled, the more invigorated he felt, less of a mouse and more of the lion he'd always wanted to be.

They had ridden for perhaps an hour when his aunt slowed the horse and trotted off the road into a clearing. She slid off the horse, tied the reins to a tree, then reached out her hands to help him down.

"Have a seat," she said.

Hroar lowered himself onto the mossy ground. It was soft, nothing like the scratchy hay beds of Honorhall. He noticed several tiny, black crawling beetles strolling around on a rock next to him. He stared at them. He'd never seen insects like them before, at least not that he remembered.

Hroar's aunt removed several cloths from a saddle bag. She ambled over and set them on the ground, then she knelt in front of Hroar. He stopped scrutinizing the beetles and turned his attention to his savior. Her gray eyes were clouded with concern. He found himself suddenly worried.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly.

The woman cocked her head. "Sorry?"

"I must have done something. You look upset. If I did, I didn't mean to." He didn't think this woman would beat him. But then again, appearances could deceive.

She smiled grimly. "You have done nothing. It is your wounds I am worried about."

"Oh," Hroar stated, feeling stupid for not realizing this. "It's alright. They don't bother me." Really, they did. His wrists were sore and if he grazed them against something they stung. The corners of his mouth hurt every time he said a word. He didn't want to tell this formidable woman, didn't want her to think she'd rescued a weakling.

"Maybe not," the woman said, a hint of disbelief in her voice, "but I will heal them anyway."

Hroar's eyes widened. Heal them? Was she...a mage? He'd heard tales of mages. Aventus had told about the court wizard in Windhelm. There was also a wizard in Riften in Mistveil Keep, but no one talked about her. Hroar knew mages could do all kinds of amazing things.

The woman put a hand to his mouth. Her eyebrows knit and golden light glowed from her hand. The pain in his mouth vanished. She next took his wrists gently into her hands. The same light glowed and the stinging in his wrists disappeared. She pulled back. "There." She turned to the cloths.

Hroar gazed on his wrists. He'd rubbed them raw over the last day and a half. Now they looked untouched. "Wow," he whispered.

He heard a short laugh from the woman. He turned his attention back to her. She was undoing the cloths. Inside was bread, cheese, dried meat and berries. Hroar's stomach clenched and his mouth watered. There was more in the cloths than he ate at Honorhall in a week.

"Eat as much as you like," the woman said, picking up a piece of bread for herself and sitting back cross-legged.

Hroar dug in. He ate and ate and ate. The cloths were almost empty when he finished. The woman had eaten lightly; it was Hroar that made the lunch a smorgasbord. The woman smiled when he declared he'd had enough. She uncorked a couple bottles, pouring red liquid from one into the other. She handed the mixed bottle to him. "Watered down wine," she explained. "I don't want to shock you right off." He gratefully took the bottle and gulped. It tasted fruity and tingly and warmed his body from head to foot. The woman laid back on the ground with her elbows propping her up. "Relax," she said.

Hroar followed her lead. He laid down and stared at the sky. It was so very blue, nothing like the sky in Riften he'd mostly seen from Honorhall's courtyard.

"Don't you have any questions?" the woman asked directly.

Hroar turned his head to her. She was smiling good-naturedly. To be honest, he hadn't thought of any. He'd been too busy trying to wrap his mind around the fact he wasn't caged in Honorhall anymore. "Um..." He laughed shortly and shrugged.

The woman grinned. "Alright. How about I ask some, then. How old are you now?"

"Twelve."

"Hum..." the woman said, eyes looking up to the left as she calculated. "That's about right. What do you know of your parents?"

Hroar shrugged again. "I don't really remember them." He only recalled brief images of his past. He didn't remember anymore what his parents looked or sounded like.

The woman nodded thoughtfully. "From my estimation, you've been in Riften since seven."

Hroar nodded. "Yep."

The woman sighed loudly. "It is I who owe you an apology. I should have looked for you sooner."

Hroar blinked his eyes. "You knew about me?"

The woman shook her head. "Not right away." The woman sat up again. Hroar made to sit up as well, but the woman put a hand to his shoulder. "Rest. And let me tell you a story."

His aunt's voice had sobered and Hroar fixed his gaze on her serious gray eyes.

"Your mother and I grew up around Falkreath. Our father owned an inn there. Our mother died when Ayleth, your mother, was four."

Ayleth. Hroar hadn't even known his own mother's name. Or he at least hadn't remembered it.

"We were raised by our father and I am afraid that made us a bit wild. We spent our time roaming the forests, riding horses when the stable boys lent them to us and insisting the local blacksmith teach us to fight. Our interests fell on swords rather than dolls.

"Then one year a woman came to stay at our inn. She was different than other travelers. She wore decorative robes and spoke forcefully. She was bold and talkative and we took to her immediately. We sat at her table when she ate and loitered in her room, eager to devour stories of her exploits. She told us about the past, about the Oblivion Crisis, when Daedra used their divine power to lay waste to Tamriel. She told us that her order, the Vigil of Stendaar, was founded after the crisis to hunt down and extinguish any abomination that would prey on mortals. She'd fought so many creatures in her lifetime—vampires, werewolves, witches, even Daedra themselves. When she left, we play acted so many of her stories and the excitement of her life never left our minds.

"When I was twenty and your mother seventeen, we left Falkreath. There was nothing for us there. We wanted lives of adventure, not to be married off to simple womanhood and tending a man's home. We had set our hearts on finding the Vigilants. And so we traveled until we reached Dawnstar and found their hall. We joined the order and devoted ourselves to learning its ways and became respected members with our own adventures."

Hroar's eyes were riveted on his aunt. He'd never known any of this. His parents had never mentioned the Vigil, much less told him that his mother was a member. He'd always assumed they traveled all over Skyrim as merchants or something. He'd never thought to ask them about it when they visited.

"And then one day a man arrived to join the Vigil as well. Faro. He was well-liked, had a hearty laugh and dancing blue eyes."

Hroar noticed his aunt's gaze had taken on a faraway look. He wondered why. Suddenly, her eyes came back to the present, but a hint of sadness remained.

"Your mother took notice of him," his aunt said shortly. "They became partners, scouring the lands of Skyrim together to rid our country of abominations. Sometimes they were gone for months at a time."

His aunt's eyes fell downcast. "Then came the day he came back to the hall, wounded, burned, weak, but carrying your dying mother in his arms."

Hroar's heart beat loudly in his ears.

"He collapsed and she fell. I was by her side instantly. I held her in my arms. 'Vampire,' he told us. We noticed his eyes then, colored red. He'd gotten the disease and he told us it had been almost a week. He asked us to kill him."

His aunt stopped talking. Hroar sat up. "Did you kill him?"

"We had no choice," she whispered. "After he was dead, your mother spoke her last words. She said she was following her husband, following Faro, to death and there was a child."

Hroar spoke in barely a whisper. "You killed...my father?"

His aunt looked intently at him. " _I_ did not. I could not. Someone else did so. I am sorry, Hroar. But if we did not, he would have been forced to feed, to live off the blood of others. He would not let himself do so. Your father was a brave and courageous man."

Hroar's throat had gone dry, but he'd also realized something. "You didn't know about me."

His aunt shook her head. "I did not. You must understand, marriage in our order is not encouraged, especially with another Vigilant. Vigilants have dedicated themselves to the scouring of Skyrim. Marriage interferes with that mission. A family makes a man or woman divided in their intentions. Thus, your mother and father had married without our knowledge. And they had you as well."

Hroar tried to digest the story his aunt was telling. His parents had been murdered by a vampire. He'd always thought horror stories about vampires were made up to scare children. But they were real. His heart chilled at the thought.

"I did not know where you were," his aunt continued. "I did not look for you, not then. Several years went by, then a friend of your mother's came to see me. He was not a member of the Vigil, but your mother had kept up with him. He knew about the marriage and about you. He had sent word of your parents' deaths to the people who kept you. He had visited Falkreath recently and decided to at least see the child of his close friend. But he found instead that those who kept you had passed away and the townspeople thought that they had sent you away with a caravan. He didn't feel it right that you should be so abandoned and so he came to me."

His aunt stared him straight in the face. "It took me a year to track down the right caravan. Its owner told me you'd been placed in the orphanage in Riften. So I took a short leave to go to Riften and see if I could find you and thus, here I am."

Hroar considered his aunt. He thought through her story. How his mother and she became Vigilants, how his father met his mother and they hid his existence, how they'd died and how his aunt had finally come for him. It was a tale out of the storybooks. He'd never thought such an eventful tale would be his. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. Stories were always exciting, but to live it, to know your parents had _really_ been warriors and died of a vampire and you had been abandoned to a brutal orphanage...it didn't feel so good living it.

"And so I ask you to forgive me, Hroar," his aunt concluded. "I can tell by your wounds...you have been dreadfully mistreated. I could have spared you if I had found you sooner."

Hroar found it strange for an adult to ask his forgiveness. He'd come to think that all adults would either assault you like Grelod or barely stand up for you like Constance. No adult had ever apologized to him. "I forgive you," he offered awkwardly. She seemed to need him to say it.

"Thank you," his aunt said. "And now, I am taking you..."

"What's your name?" Hroar cut in.

Hroar's aunt paused and then laughed loudly. "So, I've told you everything but forgotten the most important fact!" She held out her hand to him and he took it. "I introduce myself. I am Dimia. You may call me 'aunt' or 'Dimia.' I will answer to either." She squeezed his hand, then let go. "I will take you to the Hall of the Vigilant. You will live with me there. I have arranged everything. You will never have to want for food or love again, Hroar. I promise. Now, let us move on. The day wanes."

Dimia stood and Hroar followed. He helped her collect the cloths and put them away. She helped him mount the horse, climbed on, and took off back down the road. Hroar watched the scenery fly by in a daze. That morning he'd been sure that Grelod would open the punishment room door with whip in hand. He'd imagined in terror the pain of a flogging. He'd never dreamed that a mighty warrior would show up on Honorhall's doorstep to pull him out of hell. And now he would live with her, surrounded by powerful warriors who would protect him.

Hroar felt Dimia's strong arms around him. He leaned back, nestling against her. He was safe. Safer than he had been in a long time...

* * *

 _I owe her everything._ Without Dimia, he would perhaps have died in Grelod's clutches. Or he would at least have endured four more years under her control. She wasn't letting anyone be adopted at the time he'd been rescued.

Hroar clutched at the satchel he was carrying. He couldn't believe he was doing this. He _hated_ that he was doing this. But he had no choice. He had to listen to his conscience. Hadn't Dimia taught him that?

"You need in?" Jarin was still on duty and had meandered down the hall.

"Yes," Hroar said quietly.

As Jarin unlocked the door, he glanced down the hall. "You doin' it alone?"

"No use making it a noisy affair," Hroar stated shortly.

Jarin nodded. "Guess not. Knock when it's done. I'll bring my men to take the body away."

Hroar nodded once and entered the room. Jarin locked it behind him. Always a precaution, just in case.

Hroar's stomach flipped and his eyebrows furrowed. They'd said they had given Francois one more chance to give up the information. They had spared nothing to try to make that happen. The muzzle had been removed. Bruises covered his face, chest, arms and legs. They had been brutal and still Francois had given them nothing. How different than the boy who caved into cries of mercy under Grelod's hand.

Hroar walked quickly to Francois' side. With the way he looked, he could already be dead. He didn't move as Hroar approached, not even when Hroar put an ear to his chest. A heartbeat. Slow, but strong. Hroar raised his head, staring at the beaten face. Time to do it. He had made a choice and he would see it through. No turning back, not now.

He reached into the satchel and withdrew a potion bottle. He pried open Francois' mouth, ignoring the clenching of his stomach at the blood staining his childhood friend's teeth. He poured some of the liquid down and massaged Francois' neck. The man stirred, his desire for a drink awakened. The liquid seeped down and Francois coughed violently. He moved his head from side to side. The potion had its intended effect—to wake up the doomed prisoner.

Hroar stepped back, standing in front of Francois. He waited several minutes for Francois to regain his consciousness. Finally, the man's bloodshot eyes rimmed by purple bruises focused on Hroar.

"You," he rasped. He closed his eyes. "Get out."

Hroar fingered the sheathed dagger. "I'm supposed to kill you."

"Then get it over with."

"There's a problem." Francois didn't respond. Hroar released a pent up breath. "I can't do it."

Francois' eyes opened again. "What?"

"I won't kill you. I should. But I can't." Hroar sucked in his lips. He was turning on the order, turning on the woman who had saved his life. He hated himself even though he knew this was right.

Francois actually managed a slight smile through cracked lips thick with dried blood. "Hroar the Lion. I guess you are one now."

Hroar didn't smile back. He was in no mood for making light of the situation. "I have a plan. You might not like it."

"Tell me."

Hroar reached back into the satchel, setting the wake-up potion inside and pulling out another bottle, this one a purplish hue. "I created this. I call it _mortem somno_. It will slow your bodily functions until you appear lifeless."

"It's a poison?"

"No," Hroar said. "A concoction. You will seem dead. Your body will be thrown out. If timed correctly, you will awake when they are gone. I will be there."

Francois stared at him, eyes wary. "Where is the fly?"

The fly in the ointment. Yes. Hroar drew in a long breath. "The plan isn't without risks. If the timing is not precise, you may wake before they leave you. And it is possible...if they want to send a message...they may decide to cut off your head for a pike."

Francois guffawed, then coughed. " _This_ is your plan?"

"It's all I can do," Hroar insisted, more than annoyed his childhood friend was chastising him for doing something that could cost him his place in the order, perhaps his very life if the Vigilants ferreted out his betrayal.

"No, it isn't," Francois snapped. "You could release me. I transform. Break down the door and I'm gone."

Hroar shook his head. He'd thought about that, but even though he wanted to let Francois go, he couldn't turn on the Vigil that way. "You'd have to fight your way out. People would die."

"Then they die," Francois spat out.

Hroar ground his jaw. "They are my friends."

"You should get new ones."

"Look!" Hroar pressed. "I'm trying to save you!"

"You're siding with them! You see what they've done? You care about people who would do this?!"

Hroar tried to ignore Francois' condition, but he couldn't stop himself from momentarily glancing at Francois' wounds again. It was distasteful, but necessary to keep Skyrim free of evil. Francois' condition was an unfortunate mistake. He didn't deserve to die for becoming a beast by accident. "You don't understand them."

Francois snorted. "I understand them perfectly. They want to kill me. They want to kill all werewolves."

Hroar knit his brow. "I don't want to argue. Drink the potion. I will oversee your body's removal and do my best to keep them from taking your head. This is your only chance."

Francois' lips firmed. He ground his jaw for a time, then acquiesced. "Fine."

"Good. When you awake, I'll hide you and then we'll find some way to free you from this curse." Hroar had spent the better part of the last two hours looking through books, determined to find a cure for lycanthropy.

Francois laughed harshly. "Free me?" He laughed again. "Naive Vigilants! I don't need your help. I don't want your _freedom_."

Hroar stared incredulously. "You _want_ to be a beast?"

Francois laughed at Hroar's face.

"You're deluded," Hroar concluded. "You've been tricked by the beast mind."

"There is no trick."

Hroar lowered his hand that held the potion. "Francois," he spoke slowly, as if the man were the child he once was, "no one chooses this. I don't know how you were attacked, but you were and..."

"I wasn't!" Francois declared vehemently. "I _chose_ this and I will _not_ change."

Hroar took a step back. He _chose_ this? Who would choose such a thing? Now he wasn't sure of what he was doing. If Francois wouldn't accept his help, if he decided to keep on being a werewolf, Hroar was duty bound to kill him. A Vigilant couldn't let such a creature loose on the world.

"Go," Francois said, closing his eyes. "I can see what you think. I'm a lost cause and not worth anything but a head on a pike."

Hroar turned away, contemplating the blank cell wall. The boy shackled, welts down his backside, humiliated, broken. The one who had tried to get him to leave Honorhall. Who had said he'd come back. What had happened? How had he chosen a life like this? And could Hroar allow himself to end it? Time was running out. If he didn't do something soon, Jarin would return and he'd have to make up some reason he hadn't killed the beast yet.

Hroar steeled himself. He'd have Francois drink the potion. It would give him more time to think. And if it came down to killing him, he'd at least be unconscious when it happened. Hroar turned.

"Just drink." He walked up to Francois before he could change his mind.

Francois opened his eyes to slits. "You're going to let me go?"

Hroar swallowed hard, but nodded shortly. No need to explain his inner thoughts.

Francois stared at him for a few more moments, perhaps assessing his honesty. He opened his lips. Hroar uncorked the potion and poured it slowly. Francois swallowed it all. Hroar put the bottle back in his satchel and began to pace. It shouldn't be long.

Francois spoke after a minute. "I'm tired...Feel...Can't stay awake..."

"The potion is taking effect," Hroar muttered, still pacing.

"Maybe poison...maybe lied..."

Hroar stalled and looked to Francois, his eyes were closed, his mouth gaped. His head finally lolled. Hroar walked up to him and put his ear to his chest. Not a sound. The heart had slowed so much that no one would think this was anything other than death. Hroar lifted his head and stared at his beaten old friend. _Will I have to kill you?_ Hroar's hand fell to his dagger. It had never been used, at least, not to kill. He didn't know if he'd have the will to use it.

Hroar strode to the door. There was no time to wallow in his dilemma. He rapped on the door. A few seconds passed and then keys sounded turning in the lock. Jarin opened the door. Two more guards stood in the hall.

"He was dead when I checked him," Hroar said, hoping Jarin bought the lie. He was afraid too much time had passed for such a declaration.

Jarin didn't seem to care. He just gestured to the guards in the hall. They entered and began loosing Francois from the board.

"You can go," Jarin said. "We can do the rest."

"I want to see it through," Hroar said.

Jarin smiled. "Ah. Orders to take its head?"

"No!" Hroar said quickly.

Jarin's smile fell.

"I mean, no, they don't need this one's head. I just want to see how it's done. I've never seen it."

Jarin snickered and turned. Hroar wondered what he was thinking. The two guards carried Francois' "body" out and to the other end of the hall away from the stairs. They were rather casual with Francois and Hroar had to keep himself from chastising them to be more careful. The end of the hall was a dead end. Jarin grinned mischievously when Hroar frowned. He threw his broad shoulder into the wall and the stone bent inward—a secret door. Hroar raised his eyebrows. He'd never known this was here. Jarin chuckled and beckoned him inside. Hroar followed, the guards with the body coming behind.

"It's a long way up," Jarin explained as they climbed a series of stairs and steep inclines. Bricked stone gave way to rock and dirt. By the time they reached the final door, Hroar was huffing and puffing. He put his hand to the rock wall to steady himself and regain his breath. Jarin leaned over for a minute, hands on his knees, then straightened up. "You think it's hard on us, imagine them." Hroar looked back to see the guards with Francois between them at the bottom of the last incline. They'd dropped the "body" for a moment to wipe their brows. "Come on."

Hroar followed Jarin out onto a flat plain. He could hear the waterfall. "We're at the top. Above the hall."

"Yep."

Hroar wandered several feet to a river that cascaded out of sight. He gazed out on lands faraway and skies tinged pink as Skyrim's golden orb faded from view. It was breathtaking and he had seen it once before. He'd been here with Dimia. But she hadn't taken him by way of the hall. They'd climbed up from the other side. She'd explained to him the importance of the hidden hall, how they had to be careful not to reveal its existence. The original Hall of the Vigilant had been destroyed two years before he came. Many Vigilants had died, attacked by vampires. Those who had escaped death had regrouped, though it took time. They determined to make a safer place for their order, one inaccessible unless its location was known. The current hall had been an abandoned underground keep, a long forgotten relic from Skyrim's past. They had taken it over, cleaned it up, expanded it and molded it to serve their purposes. They'd also cast a few spells to aid in its concealment.

"This way!" Jarin called out. Hroar turned and continued to follow the guard uphill, then down, and up again. Jarin stopped, then grinned and pointed down into a small valley. "This's where we take them."

Hroar controlled his reaction, appearing unmoved. Dimia had neglected to show him this. Four bodies lay on the valley floor: a headless vampire, a couple witches, a werewolf transformed. The vampire's body was in the best state, only slight reddish indications of tearing flesh. The witches were almost skeletons, only distinguishable from their tattered robes. The werewolf was devoid of fur and its eyes pecked out. Hroar had never asked himself what they did with the bodies of those they captured and tortured for information. This was efficient and effective—expose the bodies and let the carrion birds do their work. It also desecrated the captured—something the Vigil intended. _Not people. Beasts, abominations, not people,_ Hroar chanted inside.

The sun had dipped below the mountains when the guards carrying Francois crested the last rise to the valley. They stumbled ahead, dragging Francois. Hroar hoped the thoughtless way they'd gotten him to the valley hadn't killed the tortured man. The guards paused, dropping Francois and wheezing. After a time, Jarin spoke. "Alright, boys, get it down there."

The guards didn't even grumble, just hoisted Francois between them and descended into the valley. They dumped Francois next to the vampire. Hroar scrutinized his old friend. Had he seen movement or did he imagine it? He had hoped the potion would last longer.

"Deed's done," Jarin concluded. "Let's head back."

Hroar paced next to him downhill, then paused at the bottom, glancing at the cloudless sky and the moons appearing big and bright as the sun descended. "It's a nice night. I think, perhaps, I will enjoy it. I have not been up here in years."

The two guards kept walking, unconcerned. Jarin glanced at him curiously. "In the dark?"

"I have a light," Hroar said, opening his hand so a ball of pearlized light drifted above him.

"Oh. Of course. Suit yourself. But we have to lock the back door. You won't get back in that way."

"I'm thinking of scouring tonight."

The guard shook his head. "You've got guts where I have none. I'll deal with them in cells, but I ain't looking for them." He laughed shortly, waved good-night and ran to catch up to his men.

Hroar breathed out shakily. So far, so good. He'd wait a couple minutes, then go back to Francois. He fell into pacing again, his nervous habit. Dimia had told him she always knew when he was out of his depth; he wore down the floors with his boots.

Dimia. Hroar put a hand to his sheathed dagger. He drew it, the silver knife glinting in his light. His aunt had gifted it to him soon after he'd arrived. He'd practiced with it countless hours. He knew exactly how to use it, but when it came time to utilize it for real...Hroar pushed the memory away and sheathed the dagger. It wasn't in him to kill Francois, even if his old friend wouldn't renounce his beastliness.

Hroar trudged back up the hill to the edge of the valley. It had gotten so dark he could only see a few feet in front of him. His light began to wane. He'd created a spell that extended the lights Vigilants were used to casting, but it still wouldn't last more than a few minutes. He wasn't a coward, no matter what Lucia thought of him, but he couldn't help feeling uneasy descending into a valley containing the rotting and dismembered corpses of Skyrim's abominations. Luckily, Francois had been laid first in. He found him easily and knelt next to him, hand above his nostrils. A strong breath. The potion was wearing off. He gazed on his old friend's face in the fading light. _I need to know how this happened to you. You'll tell me. And then you'll listen and hear reason. You cannot continue in this curse._

A long eerie moan cut the silence. Hroar stiffened and jerked around. His heart threatened to break free from his chest. He listened intently. Another moan. He guessed they were a few miles distant. He laughed nervously. Two wolves carrying on a conversation across distance. Perhaps mates in love. He looked back to Francois whose chest was beginning to rise and fall. _A wolf should not be a man._ There were the howls again, one answering the other. A little closer, perhaps. _Let the wolves be wolves._

Francois' right hand twitched. He was regaining muscle movement. Soon he'd awake fully and Hroar's curiosity would be satisfied. One howl. Closer. The other didn't answer. Perhaps they were reuniting now to seek the shelter of their den.

Francois' feet moved; his toes stretched and relaxed. He breathed deeply. Hroar glanced at the dimming ball of light. He'd wait to send up another. He needed to retain his energy. He'd heal Francois first and then they'd talk.

"Ce...da," Francois murmured.

Hroar put a hand to Francois' shoulder. His eyes would open momentarily.

"Ceda," Francois mumbled again.

Hroar assumed his friend dreamed in the death sleep. He leaned closer towards Francois' face anticipating the moment of full consciousness.

A sudden scream. A rough bark. An earsplitting howl. Hroar leaped up from the ground. What was...? A flash of white flew towards him. Hroar couldn't help it; he screamed. In his dimming light, he saw a white beast kneeling to the ground, Francois gripped in its arms. Its golden eyes jerked up and fixed their unearthly gaze on him. Hroar's ball of light vanished, replaced by faint moonlight. Those eyes, they glowed in the dark. A growl. Hroar backed away quickly, fumbling with his sheathed dagger. A snarl. Hroar's hand shook, but he managed to draw the dagger. He straightened, recalling his aunt's lessons about blocking out fear.

"Back, beast!" he yelled. "Or I'll cast you into the light!"

The eyes didn't move. Hroar swallowed. _Kill or be killed._ Hroar rushed forwards...and then was charged backwards. He tumbled to the ground and found himself underneath a mass of black fur. A long howl and then an assault. He cast a ward spell, but it drained almost instantly. Hroar felt the dagger in his hand. Desperately he thrust it upwards. It hit its mark. Another howl, this one pained. Hroar pushed with all his might. He was knocked sideways, rolling across the ground, the dagger left in its victim. A growl of anger split the air.

"No!" a voice called out. Francois' voice.

Hroar pushed himself up on his elbows and stared into the gray dark. The towering black figure of a beast backed away, yanking out his dagger and thrusting it away as it did so. The white beast, more easily identified, was standing. Two werewolves.

"No. I get this one."

The black beast retreated. The figure of a man hobbled over to him. Hroar looked up at his childhood friend. He tried to speak, but his tongue would not obey. Fight or flight abandoned him and he watched, terrified, as Francois stretched, then changed, elongating, limbs and legs growing, face shifting, nose lengthening. Only a few seconds and his old friend was gone, replaced by a gray werewolf with yellow eyes. He snarled and pawed at his shoulder. The mark Hroar had placed on him gleamed. Hroar wasn't sure what it felt like to bear it, but he knew many werewolves scratched at it as if it itched.

Francois' werewolf nose wrinkled and he fixed his flashing yellow eyes on Hroar. He rushed Hroar, lifting him by the neck and slamming him into the ground. All breath left Hroar when he hit ground. Hroar clawed at the werewolf's furry paw, trying to pry his grip away, desperate for air. In only moments, Hroar saw stars. He struggled and kicked, but his body grew weak. His hands dropped, his mouth gaped. His last sight before darkness took him was Francois' eyes—yellow, glowing, feral and somehow still human.


	5. Lucia

Hroar gasped and wheezed, then coughed. He put his hand to his head and groaned as he opened his eyes. A gray stone ceiling met his eyes. Where was he? He squinted as he scanned his surroundings. His satchel hung on a peg next to a door. A bed rested against a wall to his immediate left. A guard lay in it, eyes closed, chest rising and falling slowly, his head, arm and leg bandaged. Hroar rolled over onto his side, then managed to push himself up on one elbow. The guard's left arm was missing. Only a bandage covered a shoulder stump.

Hroar glanced down at himself. He was in a bed as well, but intact. The urge to cough overtook him and he fell into a coughing fit.

"Take it easy," a relaxed voice advised. A hand patted his back. Hroar drew in several deep breaths after the coughing ceased. Janshai, the hall alchemist, came into view. "Drink this. It'll take the pain and clear your mind."

The Dark Elf's accent soothed Hroar's confusion. He took ahold of the offered bowl and drained it. The contents were bitter, but he immediately felt better. He knew where he was now—in the infirmary. He handed the bowl back to the alchemist. "What happened?"

Janshai paced a short distance, placing the bowl on a table littered with ingredient bottles. "You were attacked by werewolves. Nasty brutes, those."

Attacked by werewolves? Oh, yes. The events came back to Hroar and at the forefront were Francois' werewolf eyes. Hroar ran a hand over his throat. His childhood friend had tried to kill him.

"No need to worry."

Hroar looked back at Janshai who was leaning against the table, arms crossed over his chest. He'd never known the alchemist well. The Elf was old for sure, the wrinkles on his face, hands and long pointed ears looking more like cracks than anything else.

"You were hardly hurt." Janshai brought one crossed arm up to run a knuckle over his lips, a gesture of thought. "Strange you didn't end up like the others."

"Others?" Hroar questioned, glancing at the guard in the bed who he now recognized as Jarin.

"Him. And them." Janshai pointed to the far right corner of the room. Two blankets lay on the floor, the shapes indicating covered bodies.

"Who?"

"The two guards with you. Holger and Daw."

Hroar swallowed hard. "How did they...?"

"Die? One throat crushed, the other ripped out. So that makes you an anomaly." Janshai pushed off the table and turned, mixing something in a bowl.

Hroar stared at the Elf's back. Janshai's tone was tinged with suspicion, like Hroar had been responsible for the whole affair. "I didn't cause the attack if that's what you think," Hroar spat out, more than a little guilty about the covert operation he'd been engaged in at the time of the attack.

"I never said you did."

Janshai kept mixing. The room fell into silence. Hroar considered the blankets in the corner and Jarin to his left. They must have been attacked right before he was. He recalled the scream, bark and howl he had heard before the white beast had appeared. The white werewolf had run right to Francois. The two werewolves must have been looking for him and when his body had been brought out of the hall, they caught his scent.

Hroar swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat with his head in his hands. What had he done? He'd let another vicious beast loose in the wilderness by saving Francois. He felt sick to his stomach and suddenly angry. He balled his fists and tightened his jaw.

"It's just interesting is all," Janshai ruminated. "They sent you unconscious, but little else. You had a bruise. Took care of that...It's as if you were spared."

Spared? Hroar stared at the blankets in the corner. Their throats had been slashed and crushed. Hroar's hand went to his own throat. Hardly hurt, Janshai had said. But Jarin and the guards, they had been shown no mercy. They had taken the bare rage of the werewolf. Francois' transformation passed through Hroar's mind. Bare rage. Hroar remembered Francois' eyes, yellow and furious, but...human. Hardly hurt. Why? The answer came forcefully on Hroar. _Because he didn't want to_. _He wasn't trying to kill me_. Francois could have killed him just as his werewolf brothers had the guards. As far as Hroar knew, Francois hadn't killed anyone. He had been choked, yes, but only to the point of unconsciousness, not to death. Hroar's heartbeat quickened. _He's not all wolf. He can be saved._

"Don't you want to know who found you?" Janshai had turned, bowl in hand. He stirred with a finger.

"Who?" Hroar asked, realizing he hadn't even been curious how they had been found.

"Your nemesis." Janshai's red eyes seemed to darken.

"Nemesis?"

"Little Lucia."

Hroar's heart sank. Not Lucia. Anyone but Lucia. Had she guessed his secret? Did she know what he had done?

"She was cursing you when they brought you in." The corners of Janshai's mouth curved upwards slightly.

"Why?" Hroar asked cautiously.

Janshai now chuckled softly. "For being an...idiot and thinking the prisoner dead when he lived."

Hroar's aching chest relaxed. Jarin must have been questioned and able to relate that Francois had "died naturally." Lucia thought he'd failed to ascertain Francois' state, that was all. "I bet she didn't call me an 'idiot,'" Hroar grumbled.

"Her language was a bit more colorful," Janshai admitted. "I did tell her the attack wasn't your fault. If his pack was looking for him, they'd have smelled him whether dead or alive."

Hroar was surprised to hear the alchemist had taken up for him. And he was right, Hroar told himself. He'd done nothing that would have brought on the attack. He was guiltless...at least as far as the werewolf attack was concerned.

"I've often wondered why you never came to see me."

Hroar raised his eyebrows at Janshai, confused by the change of subject. The Elf had stopped mixing and fixed him with red eyes that contained enough wisdom and insight to make Hroar uncomfortable.

"Little Lucia came almost daily. When Dimia brought you, I thought you'd come, too, especially when the rumor came to me that you excelled in the mixing of ingredients."

Hroar had never known Janshai even thought about him. He had, in fact, considered seeking out the knowledge of the alchemist. But he was young then and had never spent time around a Dunmer. The only children at Honorhall during his time there had been human. As Hroar met Janshai's critical gaze, he had a feeling the Dark Elf would know if he lied. "To be truthful, I was afraid of you."

"I thought as much." Janshai set the bowl back down on the table. "But you should have come. I could have made it better for you with Lucia."

Hroar cocked his head. " _You_?"

"I know her better than anyone here. I could have advised you to be patient with her. You do not know the pain she has faced."

Hroar snorted. Lucia and pain were two words that didn't go together. She was impervious to pain. Hroar stood. "I don't think you know her as well as you think you do." He walked to the peg on the wall to retrieve his satchel.

"You think she hates you, don't you?" Janshai barked out.

Hroar answered as he peered inside the bag to confirm the two empty potion bottles were still inside. "It's not your business what I think she thinks." He had tired of the old Elf's tangential conversation. His satchel was suddenly snatched out of his hand. He looked up to protest and found the red eyes of the Dunmer only inches away from his face.

"She's never hated you. It was never about you." Hroar grabbed at the satchel in Janshai's hand, but the Elf held fast. "Don't you want to know what it's all been about?"

"No," Hroar stated unequivocally. He just wanted to get out of the infirmary and back to his lab.

Janshai shook his head and let go of the satchel. Hroar slung it over his shoulder and put his hand on the door handle.

"She still lives as if she has something to prove to a dead woman," Janshai muttered.

Hroar stalled and glanced back. "What?"

"She's out there right now trying to get herself killed."

Hroar was losing his patience. "Speak straight, Elf!"

Janshai narrowed his eyes. "You are fortunate I have mastered self-control. A younger version of myself would cut out your tongue for such disrespect."

"If you want to tell me anything else, then tell me. Otherwise let me go." Hroar knew he shouldn't be so impudent, but he'd suffered a living nightmare—Francois escaped, two guards dead, Jarin wounded, himself choked unconscious, and the possibility his old friend wasn't a lost cause. He needed time alone to think.

Janshai put his hands on his hips. "She didn't just curse _you_ when they brought you in. She cursed herself. She blames herself for letting you take on the burden of the execution. She vowed revenge on your behalf."

Hroar suddenly felt uneasy. "What do you mean 'revenge'?"

"She gathered several members and they left to track down the werewolves and exact justice."

Hroar's face paled. It was exactly something Lucia would do, impulsively head out in the middle of the night to track down three werewolves probably heading straight to a larger pack. And Hroar had marked Francois. They would be led right to him. If they found him first, then he had no hope of being cured. He wasn't at fault for the dead guards, for Jarin. He hadn't made it happen, hadn't killed anyone. And Hroar was sure Francois had left him alive on purpose.

"When did they go?" Hroar asked.

"An hour or so ago."

Hroar swung open the door and dashed down the hall.

"Don't let her die!" Janshai yelled. "Or you will answer to me!"

Hroar hardly heard the warning. He ran all the way to his lab where he threw several bottles into his satchel, snatched up his aunt's old mace, securing it to his belt, and threw a warm cloak over his shoulders. He flew out of the lab, the door hitting the wall on the way out. They were an hour ahead. They could have found Francois by now. They could have killed someone he knew didn't deserve to die. He had to catch up and explain.

As he barreled through the front door and passed its guard, he threw a sharp yellow ball of light into the air. It twisted and turned, then zipped to the south and extinguished. Francois was that way and so, too, Hroar assumed, was Lucia and her posse. Curse the woman! She had always been like this, impassioned, impulsive, arrogant. From the first day he had come she had been nothing but a thorn in his side...

* * *

"What are you doing today, my lion?"

Hroar turned his head to the door that had just opened. Dimia was stepping through, smiling. He held up a bowl. "Did you know that vampire dust and garlic mixed with Juniper berries, Namira's Rot, Nordic Barnacle and a pinch of Luna moth wing can regenerate health?"

Dimia grinned. "I did."

Hroar's face fell. He'd thought he'd created something new, but he'd made something everyone already knew about...again.

Dimia walked up behind him, stared into the bowl and patted his shoulder. "Remember what I said?"

Hroar nodded.

"Tell me." She moved over to a screen in the corner to change out of her dirty clothes.

"Discovery on your own is better than discovery on someone else's shoulders."

"Exactly," Dimia's strong voice came from behind the screen. "You learn more this way. You've got a good mind for it, Hroar."

Hroar's chest swelled with pride. He picked up a potion bottle and began to pour his concoction into it. Dimia, he had learned, only dabbled in alchemy. She found it stimulating, but she didn't have a lot of time for it. She'd apologized when she'd first brought him here for the lack of entertainment. The hall wasn't made for children, she said, and wanted anything remotely fun. So she handed him a stack of books about the flora and fauna of Skyrim and gave him free reign of her lab. "See if you can do better than your aunt," she challenged him.

At first, Hroar hadn't done much with it. He'd thought that he'd rather spend his time playing with the only other child inhabiting the hall: Lucia. The girl was one year his senior and she, too, had been picked up by his aunt. Members of the order called them "Dimia's strays" and often grumbled about the inappropriateness of bringing children to the hall, even when Hroar or Lucia were within earshot. But Dimia was well-respected and held high status in the order. The current Keeper often sought out her advice and wisdom and so she was allowed to keep the two "strays."

Hroar attempted to befriend Lucia the first day he met her. His aunt had introduced the girl the first morning after they arrived at the hall. She'd told Hroar to sit next to Lucia while she procured breakfast.

"I'm Hroar," Hroar had said cheerily. He was still caught up in the adventure of his rescue from Honorhall, traveling through the varied realms of Skyrim, and touring the expansive Hall of the Vigilant.

"Lucia," the girl spoke shortly.

"How old are you?"

"Thirteen."

"I'm twelve."

"Good for you."

Hroar creased his brow. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"You don't act like it."

"Why do you care?"

Hroar shrugged. "I thought, maybe we could be friends."

"Us? Friends?"

Hroar's aunt had returned then, setting bowls of roasted grain in front of them. "So, getting to know one another?"

Lucia picked up a spoon and dug into her bowl, not answering. Hroar followed suit, every so often sneaking a peek at the girl who wouldn't look at him. What was her problem? It was like she'd hated him forever.

Dimia talked as they ate, explaining all kinds of things about the order and the hall to Hroar. The girl continued to eat in silence. Finally, she stood and said quickly, "I have to go. I have to practice." She picked up her bowl, but before she could leave, Dimia stayed her.

"Lucia."

Lucia firmed her jaw and stared, insolently Hroar thought, at his aunt.

"I have taught you as much as I can. You know that. Josse is better for you now. And you are ready. I know you are."

Lucia nodded shortly and marched away to hand her bowl to a waiting attendant. Hroar watched her, perceiving he'd become party to an argument between his aunt and the girl.

Dimia sighed. "I'm afraid, Hroar, you won't find Lucia ready to accept you. You must give her time. Change is not easy."

But time did nothing to change Lucia. The more Hroar tried to befriend her, the more she despised him. He learned about her only through listening to snatches of conversation between members. Dimia had brought Lucia into the Vigil three years before he'd come. She'd come from Whiterun, but he didn't know how Dimia had found her. No one knew anything about Lucia's background and he certainly wasn't going to ask her. She had lived with his aunt in her lab and room until Dimia had taken her leave to find him. She had been relocated to the common living quarters and made the apprentice of another member.

To make matters worse, Lucia was the perfect Vigilant; Hroar was not. He listened to Dimia's instructions and tried his best to live up to her idea of a Vigilant, but he kept failing. He'd thrown up the first time Dimia took him to observe torture. But Dimia hadn't chastised him. She'd only said that she understood why it bothered him, coming from Honorhall as he did, and she wouldn't make him see it again until he was ready. He also hadn't been very good at fighting. His skills with a dagger and a mace were passable, but Lucia excelled. Hroar had wondered aloud once if he would fare better with destruction spells, but Dimia explained that the Vigil only allowed for restoration magic. He would have to make due with his weapons skills. And so, the day he went scouring for the first time, Hroar was armed with simply a dagger and what magic he could wield.

When he was fourteen, Dimia had decided to take him and Lucia, along with her mentor, Josse, to scour for the first time. A witch had been sighted in the wilds around Morthal. They tracked her for four days, Lucia and Hroar taking turns identifying the evidence that pointed to the route the witch traveled. She finally took shelter in a cave, affording them the opportunity to corner her. Dimia had advised them on how to enter.

"Crouch. Be silent. Don't let her sense you. And be aware. There might be more with her. We haven't seen evidence of a coven, but there is no guarantee there aren't more in the caverns."

As they'd descended into the cave opening, Hroar felt so nervous his silver dagger trembled in his hand. As he and Lucia took the lead, the girl scoffed and whispered, "Leave her to me. You haven't got the guts, Hroooar."

The mockery of his name grated on Hroar. She'd made fun of him ever since she found out his mother wanted him to be like a lion. She'd thought it a great joke that someone like him could ever be compared to a fearsome beast. "I'll get her before you even graze her," Hroar snapped back. He noticed Lucia's hand on her mace didn't tremble at all.

They moved through several chambers, the young ones ahead, their mentors at their backs. Hroar peered every which way, determined to kill the witch first and prove to Lucia, and to Dimia, that he had what it took to be a Vigilant. When they reached a large chamber, they paused at the entrance, peeking in carefully. A sudden blast of fire lit up the chamber, exposing the witch on the other side, her outstretched hand the source of the fire. Lucia charged forward, dodging more blasts. Hroar sprinted after her. He'd flinched at the explosion of fire, delaying his response. He cursed himself inside for being so skittish.

The witch continued to throw fire and scream obscenities at them. Hroar and Lucia both took a couple minor blasts, but their wards kept them on their feet. Lucia managed a blow with her mace. The witch stumbled. Lucia went in for the kill, but took a shot of fire to her chest and another in her abdomen. Her ward collapsed. Flames brushed her side and she rolled across the floor to get out of the way of the witch's assault. Her mentor dropped to her side, but Lucia cast her restoration spell and pushed Josse away. Hroar took his chance. He kicked out a foot and sent the witch sprawling, her fire misdirected to the ceiling. He advanced on the witch who managed to right herself and send flames arcing towards him. He tried to dodge. He threw up a ward that caught the blast. He rushed the witch, thrusting with this dagger. He landed a slice on her right hand and she shrieked in pain. He kicked out again. She hit the ground and rolled a couple times before coming face up. She lay without moving.

Hroar grinned eagerly as he approached the witch. Here, in front of Dimia, he would show up Lucia once and for all. He'd claim the first kill between the two. He raised his dagger for the killing blow. And then he saw something he'd never been warned against—humanity. The witch had given up. Her eyes lost the light of hope, and knowing death was imminent, something human shone through. Hroar found he couldn't bring down his arm.

"Hroar!" he heard Dimia shout.

The moment passed and the witch smiled. She'd regained enough strength. She threw out her hand. Her fire would have engulfed his head and melted his face if Dimia hadn't intervened. The witch's head split open as Hroar's powerful aunt sent her mace careening into the witch. The body twitched, then lay motionless. Hroar would never forget how Dimia turned to him, her eyes full of fear, something he had never seen before. She'd gathered him into her arms, breathing heavily.

"You weren't ready. I shouldn't have done this to you."

Over his aunt's shoulder, Hroar saw Lucia standing next to her mentor. She wore an expression of scorn mixed with satisfaction. He'd failed just as she'd said he would. And now she saw his aunt coddling him. Hroar pushed Dimia away and ran as fast as he could from the cave. When he'd made it outside, he kept running. All these years of training and he failed when it mattered most.

He didn't return to their camp until well after midnight. He wanted to slip next to the fire unnoticed, but Lucia's sharp voice pulled him up short.

"Wondered if you'd ever return," she drawled. She leaned out from her hiding place sitting on a rock behind a bush, fixing him with a haughty gaze. Hroar glanced ahead to the fire. Both their mentors were already asleep. Lucia was on watch. "You might as well go home. You don't have what it takes and you know it."

"Shut up," Hroar growled. He made for the fire. Lucia's taunting followed him.

"You don't have the strength, Hroooar. Give up."

Hroar pretended not to hear her. He collapsed onto his bedroll, already laid out for him next to Dimia's sleeping form. He didn't want to believe Lucia, but deep inside he knew she was right. He closed his eyes and then another voice spoke. "There are more ways to be strong than killing."

Hroar opened his eyes and turned his head. Dimia's eyes remained closed but she continued speaking. "You don't have to be your parents. You don't have to be me. Or Lucia. You need to be yourself."

Hroar tightened his jaw. She was confirming he had failed, that he couldn't be the Vigilant he wished he could.

"Find what you enjoy, Hroar, and make that your life." Several minutes passed and he heard his aunt breathing heavily in sleep.

Hroar stared up at the clouded sky. His hand fell to the side of his bedroll where he'd dropped his satchel. As he'd walked back to the camp, he'd gathered some new ingredients he thought to try in a few potion recipes. _That's_ what excited him. He'd become quite good with potions and spells. Dimia was always impressed how he'd managed to make something of her hobby. But it hadn't been enough for Hroar. He'd always endeavored to be a lion, the mirror image of a warrior beast.

Hroar imagined the starry void beyond the clouds. "Mother," he whispered, "I'm sorry I'm not your lion. I don't think I'm meant to be. I hope it's okay."

From that point on, he spent his time in the lab. If he scoured, it was to support his aunt, but he never took the lead again. Lucia, on the other hand, earned the glory of the Vigil. The number of her kills mounted and she never lost an opportunity to rub Hroar's face in her prowess.

Now, Hroar's aunt came out from behind the screen dressed in a simple robe and lay down on her bed. "I have no doubt you will create much that will benefit the order. Keep at it. It will come."

Hroar smiled at her. She'd never stopped encouraging him. He suddenly noticed the lines on her face had grown deeper and she seemed more tired than usual. Hroar stood up from his table and walked over to her, crouching next to her bed. She was already asleep. She was so busy these days. Werewolf sightings had increased and the most recent beasts acted differently than run-of-the-mill brutes. These were organized, savvy and frustratingly hidden. Dimia went out often to scour and attended numerous meetings.

Hroar pulled at her blanket, bringing it closer up to her chin. Despite Lucia, he didn't regret coming to the hall and being brought into the order. This woman meant the world to him. She was father and mother and confidante and friend. Five years had passed since he'd come here, but it felt like a lifetime. Honorhall had become a distant memory. His life and all that mattered was here. He stood and ambled back over to the table, sitting down and putting his mind to the next potion...

* * *

Hroar sent up another yellow ball of light that zipped to his right and vanished. He turned. He'd been hiking for close to two hours. He had to be getting close to Lucia and her posse. As he'd walked, he'd carried on a continual speech in his head, explaining why Francois should be spared. He couldn't keep his explanation from sounding ridiculous. No one in the order had ever taken the side of an abomination. Still, he argued with the imaginary members, and especially Lucia. He tried to make his reasons sound palatable and not like he was turning on the order.

At times Dimia's voice intruded. He couldn't help but wonder what Dimia would say about what he was doing. She'd always encouraged him, but he was certain she would never go this far. She'd always reminded him that the abominations were not people and thus unworthy of sympathy. Hroar had never argued. His aunt was right. She had to be. And even though he still thought he saw humanness in an abomination here and there, he'd convinced himself that Dimia was right and he was wrong. Until now. Until Francois.

Hroar stopped. He'd caught the sound of strained breathing. He ducked down, crouching low to the ground. He followed the sound, stepping as quietly as possible. Suddenly he lost his footing. He landed heavily, but flipped over and sat up quickly, unhooking the mace and raising it for attack. None met him. The moons provided enough light for him to see a form at his feet. He risked sending a small hovering light into the air to see better. He gasped. He'd fallen over a Vigilant's leg. He rolled the member over. "Tyon," he whispered. A follower of Lucia's. The man's eyes were open, but empty. Hroar put a hand to his neck. No pulse. It was then Hroar noticed his chest, torn open.

Hroar stood. He moved gingerly ahead. He encountered another body. A female Dunmer, Alais. And then another man and another and a woman. All dead and all ripped apart in one way or another. Hroar could hardly breathe. They had found the werewolves, but they had been no match. From the looks of it, there had to have been more than the three. Foolish Lucia! She was smart enough to know the three would join their pack!

Hroar peered into the dark. Where was Lucia? He listened. The breathing that had stalled him was ahead, watery and labored. He moved towards a copse of trees. He stopped at the edge, his breath caught in his throat. Lucia stood spread eagle in the middle, bound by ropes stretching from each hand and foot to the trees. Her head was bowed. Hroar scanned the area, then rushed up to her. Her clothes were torn and bloody. He pressed two fingers into her neck. A slow, but steady pulse. He carefully raised her head. Her right eye was swollen shut and crusted with blood. Her left was open. It widened.

"No..." she breathed out. "Run...Run..."

Hroar didn't run; he was frozen in shock. He'd never imagined bold, audacious, capable Lucia defeated and helpless. He'd come to save Francois; it had never occurred to him he'd have to save Lucia. Sudden heavy footsteps sounded around the copse, several pairs. Hroar's heartbeat quickened. He slowly turned and what he'd expected met his eyes: they were surrounded on all sides by werewolves, five of them. A memory came back to him. He'd had a particularly difficult day with Lucia and Dimia had taken him aside. "I know Lucia isn't easy," she'd started. That was an understatement, he'd thought. His aunt went on. "But she is a Vigilant, and a good one. We are one. Our mission will only be successful if we all remain unified." "But, Lucia..." he'd started to protest. His aunt put a finger up to stop him. "Even if Lucia does not respect our unity, you can. Do not fall to her level, Hroar. She is not worth it."

He'd chanted that Lucia wasn't worth his anger for years. But he'd never asked himself what she was worth. _She's worth defending_. Hroar cast a ward and lifted his mace, taking up a defensive posture in front of Lucia. He was a Vigilant. He would not abandon Lucia to death.

The werewolves didn't attack. They paced and watched, eyes glowing in the moonlight. One barked out and Hroar saw another morph out of the shadows. This one had a glowing mark on the left shoulder.

"Francois!" Hroar called out.

The gray werewolf glanced his way for barely a second, then bobbed its mangy head. The five werewolves moved forward. Hroar cried out and swung with his mace. All five were on him instantly. He did what he could, but in mere seconds his ward had been depleted and the mace had been ripped from his hand. He was subdued, crushed to the ground, arms wrenched behind his back. He heard groaning and saw werewolves slashing the ropes that bound Lucia. The girl crumpled to the ground. A werewolf picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. He bolted into the forest.

"Where are you taking her?!" Hroar demanded.

A furry paw bashed into his face was the answer. Hroar reeled from the blow, feeling blood drip from his nose, over his lips and down his chin. He was picked up and thrown over a shoulder like Lucia. The forest flew by.

In a daze, Hroar perceived a distant glow—the mark, Francois following at the back of his pack. _I was wrong._ _He's just like them,_ he thought groggily. He'd betrayed the Vigil for nothing.


	6. Trap

After a short run, Hroar and Lucia found themselves dumped in a cage inside a rundown fortress. From the looks of it, the werewolves had only taken up temporary residence. Hroar had observed pallets and food scattered about when he'd been carried through. The werewolves retreated down a hall once their prisoners were caged. Hroar could hear them arguing about something; they must have reverted to their human states.

Hroar's satchel and cloak had been confiscated and he'd been chained hand and foot. His nose burned. He wondered if it had broken. Lucia had been dropped next to him and likewise chained. He surveyed her face. No movement. He worried she had died on the way. He scooted over to her and shoved her with his manacled hands.

"Lucia?...Lucia!"

When she didn't respond, he pushed himself to a sitting position and pressed his fingers into her neck. She lived. Hroar sat with his back against the cage's bars, arms resting on his knees. He brought his hands to his nose and took the edge off the pain with a healing spell. As he did so, he listened to the distant arguing; he couldn't make out any words. _Why aren't we dead?_ They'd killed the other Vigilants. Francois had killed. The thought felt like a punch in his gut. He'd tricked himself into thinking Francois wasn't like them. The dead Vigilants, Lucia, it was his fault. And all because he had too much of a heart for abominations.

"Hroar..." Lucia's strained voice spoke.

Hroar looked to her, relieved she was able to wake, but disturbed by her state. Her left eye was barely open. Her right remained swollen and crusted.

"You shouldn't have come. It was a trap."

 _Obviously._

"They want...you."

 _Me?_ "Why?"

"I don't know." Her voice changed, now cold. "You spoke a name."

Hroar felt an uncomfortable twist in his gut. What was the use denying it? They would never get out of this alive. "Francois."

"You know them." Lucia's left eye opened farther accusingly.

Hroar shook his head. "I don't know them. I only know one."

Lucia narrowed her left eye again. "The one we tortured."

Hroar nodded slowly.

"Traitor."

Hroar ground his jaw.

"You lied. You didn't mean to kill him."

Hroar looked away from her. "I couldn't," he barely whispered.

"Dimia was a fool to trust you."

The assertion stabbed him through the heart. His head whirled back to Lucia. "I did everything she asked, everything she wanted. I've given all I know to the Vigil. I'm not a traitor!"

"You let a werewolf go!"

"I didn't mean for all this to happen! I thought he wasn't like them!"

"Fool! They're all the same!"

Hroar ground his teeth. Yes, they were. He saw that now, too late.

"I'm glad she's dead."

"Who?"

"Your aunt. She doesn't have to see her precious prodigy betray all she did for him."

Hroar looked away from Lucia's accusing stare. His chest ached. He fought watery eyes. He'd never told Lucia that on her deathbed his aunt had admitted her own brand of betrayal. And he had forgiven her...

* * *

Hroar had been in the middle of perfecting a spell when they brought her in. His aunt had collapsed during a meeting. Janshai had seen to her, but he could not explain what was happening and no potion or spell eased her pain. The alchemist had brought her back to her bed and her room to make her comfortable and Hroar knew, to die.

Over the next several days, Dimia woke here and there, but she refused to eat and she hardly spoke. She was fading away, her flesh reluctantly releasing its hold on the world. Hroar stayed by her side. He did not leave to eat, he slept fitfully and he gave up experimenting. The only person he'd truly loved was slipping away.

In her final hour, Dimia had asked for Lucia. Hroar had sent a Vigilant to find her and the girl, now really a woman, came. Hroar had retreated across the room to give them a semblance of privacy.

Lucia stepped up to his aunt's bed and looked down at her. "You called for me?" She seemed indifferent, even now when Dimia was on death's doorstep.

"Lucia, I am sorry," Dimia spoke hoarsely. "I didn't treat you fairly. I thought you were ready, but I should have guided you longer. Do not take it out on those who had no choice in the matter."

Lucia blinked her eyes rapidly. "Is that all?" she asked quietly.

"That is all," Dimia spoke resignedly.

Lucia turned, bolting through the door. Hroar heard her footsteps run down the hall.

"Hroar..."

"Yes?" he said, moving to his aunt's bed, kneeling down next to it and taking the shaky hand she offered.

"I must confess to you." Her hand squeezed his.

"You have no confession to make to me," Hroar said, thinking she did not know to whom she spoke.

"I loved your father."

Hroar tilted his head to her. She had?

"I wanted him, but he chose your mother. I didn't look for you because I was afraid to see his child, to be reminded of what I never had. I never hated your mother, but jealous, yes." Dimia reached up with her free hand, stroking a strand of hair that fell next to his cheek. "You look like both your father and mother. And you have their courage, and your father's gracious heart."

Hroar thought of the story of his father asking to be killed instead of feeding on others to save himself from vampirism. Hroar didn't know if he bore that strength within himself, but he was glad Dimia thought so.

"You do have strength, my lion," Dimia said quietly. She seemed to often know the very thoughts that troubled him. "You were aptly named. You have your own strength in your own way." She dropped her hand from his hair. "I'm sorry I abandoned you. My selfishness cost you too much."

Hroar gripped her hand tighter. "It does not matter," he spoke truthfully. Yes, he had suffered the horrors of Honorhall Orphanage and he wished he had not. But he could not look on the woman that meant so much to him and blame her for not coming sooner. He didn't have an ounce of hate for her, even in light of her confession.

"It does..."

Hroar put a gentle hand to her lips. "No, aunt. You have all my forgiveness if you need it, but it is not needed. I hold nothing against you."

Dimia smiled. "My lion. My dear Hroar. How I will miss you."

She died not five minutes later, holding his hand. When her last breath left her body, Hroar closed her eyes, rested his head on her chest and wept...

* * *

"She would have at least listened," Hroar said quietly. Before he had doubted, now he knew. She may not have agreed with him, but she would have heard him because she knew what it was like to be torn between one you cared about and your duty to the Vigil.

Lucia snorted then coughed. "If you think that, you didn't know her."

"I knew her better than you!" Hroar insisted, turning angry eyes on Lucia.

Lucia's left eye narrowed to a slit. "Who is he, this Francois?"

Hroar lowered his eyes. "An old friend."

Lucia laughed derisively. "A Vigilant with a werewolf friend. Another reason she shouldn't have brought you into the order."

Hroar jerked his head up angrily again, sick of Lucia's self-righteous attitude. He saw no reason to put up with her now, not when he was going to die. "You've always hated me," he accused her.

"And why not? Everything she gave you should have been mine."

"You hate me over a lab?"

Lucia laughed. "A lab? Who cares about that?"

"Then what?"

"You took _her_!" Lucia shouted, then groaned and turned on her side away from Hroar.

Hroar stared at her back. He recalled Janshai saying that Lucia was still trying to prove herself to a dead woman. She was tied as tightly as he to the memory of his aunt. She had been his aunt's protégé until he had been brought into the picture. His curiosity about her past came back after years. What had Dimia done that earned Lucia's devotion...and anger?

"What did she save you from?" he asked.

"Nothing," Lucia breathed out.

"Then you don't owe her anything, do you?"

Lucia didn't reply.

"I owe her," Hroar said. "She got me out of hell."

"If you owe her, you're failing her," Lucia muttered.

 _Maybe_ , Hroar admitted, his chest aching with the thought.

A minute of silence passed, then Lucia spoke. "What hell?"

Hroar glanced at her back again. "Do you care? Or will it give you pleasure to hear?"

"Don't tell me, then."

Hroar sighed. "An orphanage in Riften. The headmistress was...often brutal. She beat us all. She fed us little. It was hell on earth."

"So you want me to feel sorry for you?"

Hroar threw his chained hands in the air. "You're a waste of time! She told me that, you know. My anger was wasted on you. You weren't worth it." Lucia didn't respond and Hroar felt vindicated. He'd meant to hurt her and he hoped he did.

Lucia began to shake. She was crying. Lucia never cried. Hroar felt sudden remorse. Here they were about to die and he was treating a fellow Vigilant as his enemy. What a way to go.

Hroar scooted up to Lucia's back. He couldn't see her face. It was covered with her disheveled braid. He put his hands to her back. Lucia stiffened. "Stop!"

"I'm just healing you," Hroar said. He could at least do that for her. He pressed his hands into her back and applied the healing spell. It wouldn't fix everything, but it would at least bind some of her wounds. He pulled his hands back and leaned against the bars again. The werewolves down the hall had quieted. Maybe they had gone somewhere else.

"I begged," Lucia spoke softly.

There had to be more. "What else?"

"I slept behind an inn. She found me."

"And should _I_ feel sorry for you?" Hroar asked, using Lucia's own words against her.

"I've never asked _anyone_ to feel sorry for me."

"But Dimia did," Hroar pointed out. Or she wouldn't have picked up a begging orphan.

"She did more than that." Lucia grew silent.

"What then?" Hroar prompted.

Lucia's back stiffened again. "She killed him."

"Who?"

"The man that came to me almost every night. That hurt me, that made me do things..." Lucia's voice faded.

Hroar felt sick to his stomach. He felt guilt and regret. He hadn't known, if he had...well, he would have had more compassion.

"She taught me how to make sure no one would ever do that to me again. I thought she cared."

Hroar rested his head on his arms crossed over his knees. Lucia's anger made more sense now. She'd been hurt and betrayed as a child, then his aunt had passed her on when he came. And now she thought he had betrayed her as well.

"Francois lived at the orphanage," Hroar said, trying to justify his actions. "He was my best friend then. He got me through it. He ran away. I hadn't seen him again, not until you brought him in."

Lucia didn't respond.

"I thought I owed him something because of our friendship. I didn't think he'd do this."

Lucia now rolled back over and fixed him with her good eye. "You owed Dimia. He's a werewolf now and he can't change."

Yes. Francois couldn't change. She was right.

"They're going to kill us."

Hroar nodded at Lucia.

"Your mistake was fatal." She turned away again.

Hroar glanced down the hall. Where were they? What were they waiting for? Were he and Lucia to face an elaborate execution? Was this waiting simply to make them sweat? If it was, Hroar couldn't help but understand. With what the Vigil had done to Francois, it wouldn't surprise him in the least if they wanted a little revenge. And the fact that they were getting it was his fault.

* * *

A half hour later, two bare-chested men tromped back to the cage. By that time, Lucia had managed to sit up, her strength partially restored by Hroar's healing spell. They had sat in silence. They had nothing more to say to one another; they had only to await death.

One man unlocked the cage and entered, walking to Lucia and standing over her. She glared up at him. The second entered and kicked at Hroar who jerked out of the way. "Up!"

Hroar pushed himself to his feet. The man growled into his face. "You try anything, we'll rip your heart out." He knelt down and fit a key to the chains on Hroar's feet. They fell off. The man pushed Hroar outside the cage. The first man exited as well, locking the door while the second guarded Hroar.

"Follow me," his guard commanded. Hroar glanced once more at Lucia who had her chin raised in defiance. He followed the one man and the other took up position behind. They walked down the hall and through several rooms, all in disarray and draped in spider webs, once again making it clear this fortress was not usually in use. They reached a pair of heavy wooden doors. The man pushed on them and they parted. Hroar followed him inside.

The room behind was quite large, held up by several columns. A raised dais was located at the far end. As they approached the dais, Hroar took stock of the inhabitants of the room. Three werewolves in beast form stood below the dais. One of them was black and had a bandage around its chest. It snarled when it saw Hroar and he remembered his silver knife that had hit home. He looked to Francois, bare-chested as the men, who stood on the dais next to an old gilded throne. He turned his head away when Hroar met his gaze. A formidable woman occupied the throne, by the looks of her, a warrior. She wore scantily clad armor, a testimony to what Hroar assumed was her prowess; she didn't need to wear much protection. Her auburn hair hung loose and wild. Her face was disconcerting. It sported three diagonal streaks of warpaint, translucent eyes shining through them. The way she carried herself, Hroar knew she was the alpha.

The man halted in front of the dais. He pulled Hroar next to him, then dropped back. Hroar glanced over his shoulder. The two men had taken up a position behind him. The three werewolves at the front moved to his sides.

"You've caused us much trouble, Vigilant," the woman sitting in the golden chair declared. "I hear you are the source of this." She snapped her fingers at Francois. His childhood friend looked to her and transformed just as Hroar had seen him last night. The woman pointed at the glowing yellow mark. Hroar suddenly understood why he wasn't dead yet. "Did you create this?"

Hroar surveyed the men and werewolves surrounding him, then Francois, who still wasn't looking at him. It would be worthless to deny it. _Die like a lion._ "I did." He spoke loudly, confidently.

"Then you can remove it," the woman concluded.

"I can't."

The woman shifted in her seat. "There are ways to make a man do what you want," she spoke warningly.

"I mean I am unable," Hroar clarified. "There is no way to remove it."

The woman tilted her head to the side, scrutinizing him. She looked to Francois. "Do you think he lies?"

Francois now looked at Hroar and Hroar stared him down. His former friend looked back to the woman and shook his beastly head.

"Have you _tried_ to remove it?" the woman asked.

Hroar shifted uncomfortably on his feet. He could see where this conversation was going. They would ask him to go farther in betraying the Vigil. He could not now that he saw the truth. "I have never needed to try."

"Then..."

"And I will _not_ try."

The woman looked beyond him and nodded once. The two men that had brought Hroar left the room. One werewolf moved behind him to fill in the gap.

"You _will_ try," the woman said. "Bring the chair."

A werwolf moved to the side of the dais and procured a plain wooden chair, placing it in front of the dais facing Hroar. Hroar gulped. He was sure he was about to come to know that there were "ways to make a man do what you want." He briefly recalled his childhood fears of Grelod and her whip. He'd never felt it. This would be far worse. How could he stand it? He thought of Dimia. He'd have to do it. He had to make up for his failure even if it meant suffering to death.

The woman stood. She reached down next to the golden chair and picked up a rolled leather kit. She jumped down from the dais. She unwound the kit and held it up for him to see. Pockets inside contained various tools.

"You know these?" the woman asked.

Hroar shook his head.

"Your order owns none?"

"We don't use things like that." The Vigilants used clubs and fists. They had their limits.

The woman set the tools on the dais. She withdrew a serrated knife. "An order that once tried to destroy us took great pleasure in using these." She looked over at Hroar. "It no longer exists." Her voice was taut with threat. He had no doubt she wished the Vigil extinguished as well. "Hurting my wolves is hurting my wolves, no matter how you do it."

"I've never tortured anyone," Hroar asserted hastily, hoping to earn some good graces.

"Perhaps not. But your companion has."

Lucia. Of course she had. Hroar did not say anything. Francois would have told them everything.

"And here she is."

Hroar turned to look behind. The two men had returned with Lucia between them. When they reached Hroar, one halted behind him. The other hauled Lucia by the arm, pulling her passed him. She didn't look at Hroar. The man roughly shoved her into the chair in front of the dais.

Hroar's mouth went dry and his heart pounded. No. No.

The man unlocked Lucia's manacled hands, then pulled them behind her and chained them to the chair.

"Stop!" Hroar demanded. "You don't have to do this!"

The woman handed the serrated knife to the man. "Do it."

"No!"

"You've changed your mind?" the woman asked.

Hroar stared at Lucia. She held her head high. He didn't know what to do. He paused too long for the woman.

"Go ahead."

The man held the knife to Lucia's clavicle.

"I change my mind!" Hroar shouted.

The woman held up her hand to stay the man.

Lucia now looked to Hroar with her good eye. "Whatever they want, don't do it."

Hroar creased his brow in frustration. How could he not? He couldn't let them punish her because he'd created the mark. He thought of his father again, dying instead of feeding. Lucia was ready to die rather than give in. _I can't do it. I'm not my father._

"Here is how this will work," the woman said matter-of-factually. "Francois will take charge of you. You will comply with all his instructions. And you will find a way to remove this mark. For every hour you do not, your companion will suffer." The woman gestured to the man. He swiped the knife across Lucia's clavicle and she gasped through clenched teeth.

Hroar rushed towards her. "I said I changed my mind!" He was grabbed from behind and pulled backwards.

"You did," the woman confirmed. "But now you know I mean exactly what I say. Take him."

A werewolf stepped up to Hroar and gripped him by the arm, dragging him away. Francois followed, his eyes still averted. Hroar kept his eyes on Lucia. She was grimacing in pain, but her good eye was focused on him. "Don't, Hroar," she rasped. "Don't."

The werewolf pulled him through rooms and halls and then outside. The moons had coursed through the sky. The night was waning. The werewolf knelt down and chained his feet again, then hefted him over a shoulder as before. He began to run. Francois kept up, still in his werewolf form.

Hroar watched the fortress disappear into the distance. He wished he had just died inside it.


	7. Wolf

The run through the forest didn't take long. Hroar fought off the temptation to doze, catching himself numerous times. He hadn't slept in almost twenty-four hours and adrenaline no longer sustained him. He came fully awake when he abruptly dropped to the ground, hitting the back of his head. He sat up, rubbing at the pain and running his gaze over a rundown shack. The werewolf that had been carrying him barked to Francois who barked back. The werewolf turned and wandered into the forest. Francois leaned down and gripped Hroar's manacled hands, hauling him to his feet. He pulled him inside the shack and tossed him onto a bed. Hroar scanned the one roomed shack, guessing it must have belonged to a mage at some point as bottles of ingredients and various magic objects were strewn about.

Francois began to shake and groan. His beastly formed dissolved and the young man Hroar had saved the night before appeared. His body still sported many bruises, but they were paler, his eyes a lesser shade of purple. He grabbed a pair of pants out of the corner and threw them on. He took a deep breath and turned resolutely to Hroar, fixing him with a steely gaze.

"If you try to escape, Dreue is patrolling. You won't get away."

Now that Francois was again a rational man, Hroar felt rage rising within him. "I should never have tried to save you," he declared.

"Save me?" Francois laughed derisively. "You ruined my life."

"Without me, you would have been killed and left to rot!"

"You changed your mind, didn't you, siccing your Vigilant friends on us."

"I didn't send them," Hroar corrected. "They left on their own. I was unconscious." He fixed Francois with a knowing stare.

Francois tightened his jaw. "It doesn't matter. We used them to our advantage. It got us you."

"If you wanted me so badly, it would have been easier to take me instead of choking me, wouldn't it?" They wouldn't have needed to hunt Vigilants then, wouldn't have made Lucia the bait in their trap.

Francois rolled his eyes to the left, looking away briefly. "We didn't think of it. We just ran."

"And now..."

"Stop!" He turned back, eyes fierce. "I didn't bring you here to talk. You're going to use whatever you can and you're going to get rid of this." He pointed to his left shoulder where the mark lay even if invisible at the moment. "I can't go home until it's gone!"

"I don't know if I can," Hroar said honestly. "It was never designed to be removed."

"She wasn't joking. She'll torture your woman to pieces if you don't fix this. So get at it." He gestured to a shelf of ingredients and magic objects.

Hroar held up his hands and nodded to his feet. "I can't very well do it with _these_."

Francois knelt down in front of him and unlocked his manacled feet, then did the same to his hands. "There. Now work."

Hroar stood and approached a table set against a wall across from the bed. He picked up an overturned chair, brushed off some dirt and sat down. He took stock of the ingredients and objects on the shelf tacked above the table, wheels turning in his head. He had to figure this out. If he didn't...Lucia's grimacing face came to him. All their quibbles and his frustration at bearing the brunt of her anger had paled in light of her torture. He couldn't stand that she was suffering because he'd been clever enough to create the tracking mark. All he wanted to do now was save her.

* * *

Hroar picked up a jar of Glow Dust and sprinkled some into a bowl on the table. So far, he hadn't come up with anything close to working. Creating the mark had taken over a year, an idea he'd doubted would ever come to fruition. He'd conceived of it when Dimia had remarked that some werewolves were so violent and strong she feared their ability to escape once caught. He'd wondered if there might be a way to track them. He'd begun experimenting, using skeevers he'd trapped as his subjects, and eventually he succeeded. The key lay in the application of an ointment that infused into the skin. Once embedded, the ointment became reactive to a specific charge of energy and could absorb a focused pattern. The energy acted like something of a magnet when tracking. One had only to release another charge and it would for a moment be drawn in the direction of its counterpart. The ointment was easy to lay on; the application of the energy to a subject required a delicate hand and only Hroar had been able to accomplish it as of yet. If the mark was put on by someone with a heavy hand, and most Vigilants were quite heavy handed, it just burned right through the subject, severing limbs. Hroar had never thought about reversing the effects of the mark. He didn't think it possible to pull the infused energy out of flesh. He had no idea how to even begin or if anything he was considering would work.

"This is taking too long," Francois spoke from behind him where he waited on the bed.

Hroar didn't look at him, but grumbled, "I don't have my own lab. I'm doing the best I can."

"It's almost been an hour."

Hroar's chest constricted. The time had been too short. "I can't work this fast!" he complained, mixing and thinking. He heard Francois stand.

"That's not my problem."

Hroar turned his head when Francois walked to the shack door. He morphed again, his wolf form stretching his arms, widening his shoulders, narrowing his hips. He pushed open the door and poked his mangy head out. He howled, one long note, two short ones. He pulled back in and shook, melting back into his human state.

Hroar stared at him. "Did you..."

"A message. I let them know you haven't gotten rid of it yet."

Hroar jerked his head back to the mixing bowl. He stared at the contents, trying not to imagine Lucia being cut or peeled or broken or whatever they were doing to her right now. He picked up the bowl, then flung it down in frustration. It clattered across the table and fell onto the floor.

"That's not going to help," Francois commented.

Hroar twirled in his chair, facing his friend turned enemy. "What happened to you?"

Francois didn't answer, clothing himself in pants again, then settling onto the bed.

"How can you be so cruel?"

"Cruel?" Francois came back. "We didn't ask you to hunt us down, kill us wherever you found us. We've done nothing but defend our own."

"That's not true," Hroar argued. "We've met people terrorized by you."

" _Not_ us," Francois came back. "Rogues. Those who can't control their gift."

"Gift? That's what you call this thing you are?"

"You're wasting time!" Francois yelled. "If you want her to die, just keep shouting at me."

Hroar reluctantly turned back to the table. "I need other ingredients," he ground out.

"What?"

"Nirnroot and yellow mountain flower." And maybe more. Who knew what he'd need or if it could even be found in the shack or outside the door?

Francois pushed off the bed and walked back to the door again. Hroar saw him transform out of the corner of his eye. He did it so easily, slipping in and out of his beastly skin as if it was second nature. He wondered what it felt like to be wolf.

Francois howled a pattern, then became human again. Dreue appeared still in werewolf form. "Get some Nirnroot and yellow mountain flower." The werewolf bounded away. Francois wandered back over to the bed.

Hroar put his head in his hands, willing himself to puzzle out the answer.

* * *

Hroar rubbed his eyes and shook his head. He had dozed off again. He was trying as best he could to stay awake, but lack of sleep was taking its toll. Another hour had come and gone, another howl from Francois. Hroar couldn't concentrate, fighting both fatigue and stress. He had no idea how much time had passed, but every second felt like he was wasting time.

Hroar peered into the bowl. It could be years until he came up with a solution. Or he might never come up with one. What were they going to do? Keep him a prisoner here for years and torture Lucia endlessly? He glanced over his shoulder. Francois sat on the bed leaning against the far wall, asleep. Or he seemed so. They were both exhausted. Hroar blinked rapidly. He had to stay awake, even though his body only wanted sleep.

Sleep. Hroar ran his eyes over the ingredients on the shelf and those he'd gathered and set on the table. His tiredness melted away. He grabbed several bottles, the adrenaline of an idea pushing him forward. He poured and began to grind and mix. After a few minutes, he heard Francois yawn loudly, then stand up from the bed. He walked to the door and cracked it open. Hroar looked over. Francois was assessing the sun.

"Is it time?" Hroar asked nervously.

Francois looked to him. "Almost." He rubbed a hand over his eyes.

"Please don't."

"I have to."

"You've already gotten your revenge!" Hroar protested. "She's been hurt worse than you."

Francois peered back out the door. "This isn't about revenge. It might have been, but not now."

"Then what?"

Francois didn't answer, just continued to gaze out the door.

"I know what she's done," Hroar said, trying to placate the werewolf. "It wasn't right. But what you're doing to her..."

"You've killed hundreds of us," Francois growled.

Hroar figured that was probably right. Over the whole of the Vigil's existence, probably thousands.

Francois stretched and Hroar knew he was preparing to change.

"Wait! Just wait! Give her a break, please," he pleaded.

Francois looked at him again, his expression grown softer. "Is she...your wife?"

Hroar wondered at the question. "Would it make a difference if she was?"

" _Is_ she?"

Hroar slowly shook his head. "She was my aunt's apprentice...until I came."

"Is that how you got out?"

Hroar knew Francois meant Honorhall. "My aunt came and got me."

"She's a Vigilant."

"She was. She's dead."

Francois looked back out the door. He sucked in his lips and blew out. Hroar recognized the expression from the past. He was uncomfortable. "I came back to Riften to look for you. Asked around. No one knew where you'd gone. And I wasn't going to ask the hagraven." The corners of his mouth turned up slightly.

"When?" Hroar asked.

"I was fifteen."

Three years after his aunt had come.

Francois continued to speak without looking at him. "I've been thinking...In Honorhall...If you hadn't been there..."

Hroar understood. If they hadn't had each other, it would have been all the harder making it through.

Francois turned his head. "I kept my promise. I wanted you to know." He transformed then. Hroar watched in trepidation, waiting for the howl that signaled more suffering for Lucia. When he'd spoken just now, Francois had sounded so much like his old self, like the boy he'd known at Honorhall. The monster getting ready to howl for the torture of a human being was so far removed from the boy Hroar had known.

Francois howled. Then, instead of moving back from the door like he had before, he dipped his head, furry paw braced against the door frame. He shuddered and shrank back to human. He didn't look at Hroar, but at his feet. Hroar read in his posture reluctance and perhaps, shame. _He doesn't like what he just did_ , Hroar realized.

Francois pushed off the door frame, drifting back to the bed, donning his pants and sitting with his elbows propped up on his knees. Hroar turned back to the table. He knew what to do now. He mixed, but spoke as he did so. "How did this happen to you?" His tone was kinder.

"It's a long story."

"I have time to listen."

"I don't know if I should."

Hroar looked over his shoulder. "I always wondered why you didn't come back. If you'd found your parents. Did you?"

Francois lowered his gaze, wringing his hands. "In a way, yes."

"Well..."

"It's personal."

Hroar turned back to his work. "So was most of Honorhall," he muttered. "I thought we were friends then."

Francois sighed, then said quietly, "I guess I owe you _something_. Fine. I'll tell you what I can..."

* * *

Three years of wandering and Francois had nothing to show for it. At first he'd begged rides to take him to his parents' favorite haunts. Although he found them one by one, his parents occupied none and no one he asked even remembered them. He worked odd jobs along the way to keep living, but he starved often. He grew thin and tired and despondent.

Eventually he found himself in the capital of Whiterun Hold. The owner of the inn there let him chop wood for coin. He'd been in the middle of a swing when a brash female voice called out to him.

"What are you doing, pup?"

He glanced to the side to see a woman approaching, a warrior by the looks of her. Her clear eyes peering through three lined diagonal warpaint seemed a contradiction: fierce, but hinting at a bit of good humor. Francois turned back to his work, splitting a log in two. Warrior or not, he was in no mood for conversation. "What's it look like? Earning a living." He readied another log for the ax.

"You've got spirit."

Francois ignored her, hefting the ax and chopping down.

"Stop awhile. Come eat with me."

Francois looked at her again. Why in the world was a warrior woman asking him to join her for lunch? "I need to finish this."

"It's free. No coin."

Francois considered. If it was free... He set the ax against the side of the inn. "Alright then."

"Follow me."

Francois kept up with the woman as she mounted several steps two at a time. She headed towards a large building that looked like an overturned ship. They passed a few warriors practicing with weapons and their fists. She opened a double door for him and Francois stepped into a large hall. More warriors were inside, most lazing about on a hot day. The woman directed him to a long table. He sat down on a bench as she yelled across the room at someone to bring them lunch. A large man with a ponytail came over carrying two bowls of stew and a loaf of bread. He raised his eyebrows.

"New recruit?"

"In need of food," the woman explained.

The man laughed. "Ain't like you to give handouts. Need a Gift of Charity?"

The woman snatched the loaf out of his hand, tearing off a piece then handing it to Francois. "We all need help sometimes, Farkas. Even you."

The man laughed heartily and the woman chuckled. Some kind of inside joke Francois presumed. The man set the bowls down and wandered off.

Francois dug into the stew. He hadn't had a proper meal in awhile. The woman questioned him as they ate.

"Where are you from?"

"Nowhere."

"Where were you born, then?"

Francois shrugged.

"What about your parents?"

"Don't know."

"You're an orphan."

"I guess."

"How have you lived all this time then? Just chopping wood."

"Was in an orphanage. I ran away. I can take care of myself."

"I can see that."

He glanced at the woman who was smiling at him. He turned his attention back to his meal, slurping up every last bit. When he was done, he stood. "I've got to get back."

"Come back tonight."

"For dinner?" Francois asked in surprise.

"That and a story." Her pale eyes bored into him. "Trust me, pup."

Francois didn't answer her, just headed for the door. He was grateful for the meal, but he didn't know what to think of the strange woman. The rest of the day he debated her offer. The innkeeper said if he chopped enough wood she'd give him something, but that stew had been awfully good. Probably because the warriors were hunters. What would it hurt to go back? So it was he found himself in the evening cracking open the door to the mead hall and slipping nervously inside. It was loud and raucous, the warriors all inside, arm wrestling, sharing stories of exploits and drinking like they were dying of thirst.

"Hey! What's this runt here for?" a half-dressed, hairy man drawled out, slapping Francois on the back and sloshing a pint of ale all over the floor.

The woman appeared. She'd changed out of her warrior gear, now sporting only a simple tunic. "He's mine."

The man guffawed. "Like 'em young, don't ya'?"

The woman hauled off and punched him in the face. The man reeled back, but he didn't fight back. He only laughed all the harder.

"Come," the woman said. Francois followed as she passed crowded tables and instead gestured to a small corner table set for only two persons. "I figured you'd come," she explained. As before, Francois tucked into the meal with gusto. Roast venison, seasoned potatoes, spiced apples. When he finished, he leaned back, his stomach full to bursting.

"I owe you a story," the woman said.

Francois drew in a satisfied breath. "Tell it."

The woman didn't beat around the bush. "I know what happened to your parents."

Francois sat up abruptly. "You know them?"

"I never met them."

"Then how..."

"Walk with me." The woman withdrew a bag from under the table, stood, slung it over her shoulder and headed for the door. Francois jumped up and ran after her. She left the hall and pounced down the steps. She kept on going when she reached the gates of Whiterun. Francois paused in the gates. Where was she going? She looked back as she walked. "You _can_ trust me." Francois fell into stride next to her.

"What's your name?" the woman asked as they hiked along the road to the east.

"Francois."

"Imperial?"

"My parents were."

"When did they come to Skyrim?"

"Before I was born. Look, why all the questions?"

"Simply wondering how they came here and why."

Francois was confused. The woman claimed she hadn't known his parents yet cared so much about them. Francois hiked next to her for the better part of an hour. When they reached the base of a mountain, he followed the woman up a path that climbed the side. The woman finally stopped next to an overgrown mass of bush. She pushed branches aside and beckoned him in. He pushed through, trying to ignore the scratching and tearing of his skin as the woman did. He found himself standing in momentary cold darkness until the woman lit a torch.

"This way." She proceeded downwards into a cave. When they reached the bottom, she turned to the right and entered a small chamber.

"There," she said, pointing to a wall. Numerous holes had been carved into it and within each hole lay a plain wooden box. The woman walked to the wall, dropped her bag and set the torch in a holder. Francois hung back. She reached up high and pulled out one box, then retrieved another from the middle. She held one in each hand and pitched her head back, eyes closed. "Mercy of Hircine be upon these this night." She opened her eyes and looked to Francois.

"These are your parents."

Francois knit his brow skeptically but approached anyway. The woman opened the boxes and handed them to him. Francois glanced inside them. Ashes and what looked like a dog's tail in each. Francois scowled angrily at the woman. "Is this a joke?"

"No," the woman stated unequivocally. "I smelled your parents in you."

"Huh?"

The woman retrieved the boxes and set them on the floor. "Are you cowardly?"

Francois was surprised at the question, but answered swiftly and a bit insolently. "No."

"Then don't run."

The woman began to change, arms and legs extending, face morphing, body darkening. Francois stood momentarily frozen in shock. In very little time at all a creature he hadn't believed existed stood before him. Francois found his feet and turned to flee but the creature was on him, seizing him by the waist, then turning him to face it. It began to melt away, shrinking and becoming pale with human flesh. The woman's face appeared again. "It's still me. Calm down."

Francois trembled in her grasp.

"You did not know. Your parents were werewolves..."

* * *

Hroar had stopped mixing and sat transfixed. "Did you believe her?"

Francois laughed ruefully. "I thought she was crazy. She tried explaining. About how she and others defeated the Silver Hand, a bunch of werewolf hunters. How she'd sought out their hideouts to find those they'd killed, preserving werewolf remains in a respectful way. But I didn't believe her. When we left that cave I set out towards Riften to get you. I didn't think I'd ever find my parents and I probably wouldn't have trusted anyone else who said they knew them."

"My aunt told me my parents were killed by a vampire. I didn't think vampires were real either."

Francois briefly smiled. "We only thought hagravens were." He gestured to the table. "You should keep working."

Hroar turned back around. He'd finished the ointment. Now he had to complete the potion...and then some. He asked another question as he worked. "If you didn't believe her, how did you become what you are?"

"Cedany."

Hroar cocked his head as he poured liquid into a bottle. "Who is she?"

"My wife..."

* * *

Francois left Riften without a hint of Hroar's whereabouts. He'd hoped to find his friend and regain some kind of companionship in a dark and uncertain world. But Hroar was gone and Francois was left with only the hope that wherever his friend was it was for the better.

Francois traveled northward for a time, still taking odd jobs here and there, but the cave with its boxes always haunted the back of his mind. Before she had released him, the woman had told him that if he would submit to the beast blood, he would know she told the truth. She directed him to come back and ask for Aela if he ever wanted to know for certain. Instead, he had run as far from Whiterun as possible, scared out of his wits to know he'd been in the clutches of a real werewolf.

Four more years of begging and working hard and earning what he could passed. And then he'd wandered back into the realm of Whiterun. He didn't go into the capital, still wary of the crazy warrior woman a creature in disguise. But he did head for the cave. Its location had been burned into his memory and he found it easily. However, he had no lantern or torch. He sat outside it, wondering as he had over the years if anything the woman said had been true. He'd gone over and over his childhood, picking out indications that might bolster the woman's claim. His father had gone hunting almost every night and always brought something back, but many hunters were good at hunting. At night, though...but what was so unusual about that? His father credited his good eyesight. And then, both his parents had known everything about nature. But alchemists did, too. So his mother and father liked nature. That didn't mean they were werewolves.

But Honorhall, that caused him the most doubt. They'd dropped him off without telling him exactly why. They said they needed to get away for a while and they wanted him to be safe. When he'd asked for more details, they claimed it was best he didn't know and to just trust them. What if they knew about the Silver Hand? What if they had been fleeing and put him in Honorhall to keep him out of harm's way? It made too much sense.

Francois looked west. He could go back to Whiterun and see the woman again. Ask more questions. No. He didn't want to see her again. He reluctantly stood. The light had faded and he needed to find somewhere to sleep for the night. A mile or so down the road should be a farm. He could beg there. He'd reached the base of the mountain when a mournful howl sounded to his right. He drew his knife and stared into the grayish night. Was it wolf or werewolf? It howled again, ending sharply. It sounded wounded, scared. Francois backed away towards the road, but then it whimpered, so dog-like. What if...

He crept forward, following the pitiful cries. Night had descended, the moons shone. He found himself on the edge of a clearing with a pond in the middle. A pure white, furry ball was curled up beside it. It was too large to be just a wolf. He tried not to breathe and backed slowly away. His foot snapped a twig. In an instant, the werewolf rose and careened towards him. He screamed and leaped back, but the werewolf had him by the throat in seconds. It growled in his face.

"A-A-Aela?" he stammered. When he'd seen her transform, she hadn't been white, but he wasn't sure if werewolves couldn't change their color.

The werewolf tilted its head and lowered him, but still held him fast. It barked quite a bit. He stared at it, shaking. When he didn't say anything, the werewolf began to change and as the fur fell away he beheld a young woman close in age to himself, ginger haired, blue eyed, svelte and naked as the day she was born.

"You know Aela?" she asked. Her voice was deep and sonorous.

"Y-yes," Francois answered, shaken now more by the beautiful woman in front of him than her transformation.

"You're not wolf."

"No."

"Then how do you know her?"

"She...she showed me the cave...with the boxes...She said my parents..."

The woman gasped. "They were killed by the Silver Hand?"

Francois only nodded. Aela had said so anyway.

"I'm sorry." She released her hold on him. "My father died two days ago. He's there now, too."

She'd been mourning, he realized. She plodded back to the pond and sat down with her knees drawn into her chest. Francois was caught off guard by her ease at being naked in front of a stranger. Aela had been naked, too, after her transformation, but he'd been too terrorized to care much about that. Now, he thought he should honorably leave this woman alone, but felt compelled to follow her. He sauntered over and sat down a few feet from her, keeping his gaze politely averted.

"Can I ask...if it's alright...What's it like?" he asked after a time.

"Being a werewolf?"

He nodded.

"Your parents never told you."

He shook his head, even though he still wasn't sure they had been creatures of the moon.

"They hid it from you?"

Francois shrugged.

"You can look at me. I don't mind." Francois gradually turned his head, trying to focus on the woman's pale face. She smiled broadly. "Being werewolf is really living. You feel everything more than normal people. The rustle of the wind, the silky grass, the bite of a cold stream. You smell every inch of the world. It's like...like a celebration of all our senses have to offer."

The way she described nature reminded him of his parents' vibrancy—his mother's gushing over every plant and flower, his father's joy in a flowing stream and a thunderous downpour. His suspicions grew. "You've always been one?"

The woman shook her head. "It's not like that. You have to ask to become one. At least, to be part of Aela's pack. My father was. And I am."

"The pack at the mead hall," Francois stated. He'd been eating with dozens of werewolves that day and hadn't known it.

"No," the woman said, with a raised eyebrow. "A few at the hall are werewolves, but not most. We're not open about ourselves. Most people couldn't accept us. Didn't Aela tell you all this?" She frowned.

Aela hadn't, but Francois wasn't sure it would be wise to tell a woman capable of becoming a ferocious creature this fact. Instead he asked a question. "Could you...do something for me?"

"What?"

"Come with me to the cave."

The woman's face sobered. "I will."

She walked beside him to the cave. When they entered, she was able to find the torch and light it in the dark. They walked down to the boxes. The woman rested her hand gently over one on the bottom. Francois scanned them. "I don't remember which..."

The woman reached up and retrieved one and then another from the middle.

"How did you know?" Francois asked, already certain he knew the answer.

"They smell like you."

He stared at her. She'd already done what he'd wanted her to do. She had confirmed that he was, indeed, the progeny of werewolves. "Take me to Aela..."

* * *

"And that's when you became one," Hroar stated.

"Soon after," Francois replied.

The last potion was almost ready. Hroar stirred the contents slowly to avoid over mixing.

"I wanted to know what it was like, what my parents were like. And...I fell in love."

Hroar continued to stir. As Francois had told his story, Hroar had thought how normal everyone sounded. His leader, Aela, a common enough warrior. Cedany, a young woman in mourning for a lost parent, a situation he knew well. And Francois himself.

"Ceda and I have a son." Hroar stopped stirring and turned in his chair. Francois' face had darkened. "And I can't be with him or my wife until you've gotten rid of this thing." He rubbed at his left shoulder.

That's why he wanted it removed so badly, Hroar realized. He was a danger to his family. The Vigil could find him anywhere he went. Hroar felt a stab of guilt. "I know what you think of the Vigil, but it's only trying to protect people."

"We aren't a threat!" Francois snapped.

Hroar held up a hand. "I'm not saying _you_ are. But even you mentioned 'rogues.' There are werewolves out there unlike you."

Francois continued to stare him down. "But your people see no difference. They spread their net wide and kill us all. Just like the Silver Hand. You would have killed my parents."

Hroar looked away from Francois' angry eyes.

"You'd kill my wife. And someday my son."

Hroar had to admit to himself this was true. The Vigil didn't make a distinction between werewolves that could control themselves and those that rampaged through the night. He thought of the look he'd seen on Francois' face at the last howl. Francois didn't want to hurt anyone any more than he did. Neither were cut out for the ruthlessness of their own.

"We're not that different, not even now," Hroar said, looking back up. He had Francois' attention still. "We both got away from Honorhall and took what was offered us to make our homes in this godforsaken world. But just like at Honorhall, we stand by and watch as others get what they want through threats and pain. And sometimes we help them give it."

"But..."

"What did your alpha tell me? That hurting her wolves was hurting her wolves no matter how it was done. That a man could be made to do what she wanted. How many people has your pack tortured, even though you may have thought yourselves justified?"

Francois blinked and sucked in his lips and in so doing answered the question without a word. He spoke only to explain himself. "I've never killed anyone except to defend my family. I wasn't trying to kill you when I choked you."

Hroar had already guessed this. He had read Francois right all along. He corked the potion bottle, then picked up the ointment jar in his hand. "What happens when the mark is gone?"

"I go home."

"I mean to me and Lucia."

Francois held his gaze. "You've seen us in our human forms."

Hroar nodded slowly. He'd suspected all along that neither he nor Lucia were meant to live no matter what he managed to accomplish. "You'll let me die."

Francois let out a harsh breath. "I don't want Aela to kill you, but...I want to go home. This mark will keep my family in danger. You've taken me away from my wife, my son...Maybe I can talk to her. Try to..." His voice broke. Hroar could see talking to his alpha would make little difference.

Hroar stood and walked across to the bed. "I'm ready." He swiped his fingers through the jar.

"No, don't." Francois jumped up from the bed. "I can't let you. I can't be responsible for your death." He paced to the table, bracing his palms on it, his head bowed. He looked utterly defeated. Hroar walked over to him. He began rubbing the ointment into Francois' shoulder. Francois pushed him off. "No! I said..."

"I know what you said." Hroar went back to rubbing in the salve.

Francois stared incredulously at him. Then his eyes blinked slowly and he cocked his head in slow motion.

"What did you..." He cut out and began to buckle at the knees. Hroar had anticipated this and caught him from behind to lay him down gently. He gazed into his friend's face. "You won't die. It isn't a poison. It only slows you down, weakens you. I'm sorry. Your people gave me no choice. I wish I could remove it, but it might take years to figure it out. I'm sorry."

He stood back up and stuffed four bottles into his robe. He bolted across the room, snatching at a rusty lantern hanging in a corner, then retrieving another in the opposite corner. _Please let me find something._ He returned to the table, opened the oil flap on one and upturned the lantern hoping against hope. Oil poured into the bottle. His heart soared. When one lantern ran dry, he picked up the other and added its contents to the bottle. There wasn't as much in the second, but when all was said and done, he had one bottle full of oil. He corked it and secreted it in his robe. Finally he picked up one more potion from the table. He felt a hand on his ankle and looked once more at Francois. His mouth moved sluggishly opening and closing, but nothing intelligible came out.

"If I could take off the mark, I would. Maybe there is a way. But I can't let Lucia die...I just can't." Hroar reached down to remove Francois' hand from his ankle. He made for the door. He heard Francois trying to move behind him. He didn't look back. He took a deep breath and stepped outside.

Hroar ran as noisily as he could. He heard a heavy gallop approaching straight in front of him. He paused. The other werewolf appeared in his path. It snarled and made to leap, but Hroar had already thrown the potion bottle. It shattered against a tree trunk, spewing its contents, becoming a green gas on hitting air. The werewolf tried to backtrack but was down in an instant. Hroar had held his breath. Now he ran on. He'd done his best to work with what he'd had. The ointment and the gas were weak, but if luck held with him they would last long enough for him to get back to the fortress and rescue Lucia before either werewolf could howl a warning ahead.


	8. Lion

As he backtracked, Hroar's mind swirled with recent events. Everything had been straightforward before Francois had been captured. He may have harbored his suspicions about the humanity of abominations, but he'd been able to set those aside, choosing to trust Dimia and thus the Vigil. Now, he doubted everything. He still loved Dimia. She had unconditionally given him all her love and attention. He wanted to do right by her and his mind rebelled at considering that the Vigil was misguided in the way it approached its mission. But then there was Francois. As he'd listened to his old friend relate his story, he couldn't blame him for choosing to be a werewolf or for hating the Vigil. Hroar sincerely desired to remove the tracking mark, hated that he'd put it there in the first place.

Lucia intruded on his thoughts as well. Janshai had been right. Hroar had always viewed her as his nemesis, though if someone had claimed such, he would have insisted he bore her nothing but good will and the fault lay with her alone. In truth, he'd relished every time someone showed her up, every time she mishandled a quest and every time his aunt corrected her. He'd never really seen Lucia as a person, just a stumbling block to put up with. And to think she'd been abhorrently victimized as a child and his aunt had killed her tormenter. No wonder she had clung so to his aunt. How it must have stung when he'd showed up at the hall and she was handed over to another mentor. And no wonder she had pledged herself so thoroughly to the Vigil—it had given her the ability to fight back against anyone who would hurt her. He couldn't blame Lucia either, he realized. And for that reason, he couldn't let her die. That, and he wouldn't dishonor his aunt by letting the other "stray" she had rescued perish.

So, Hroar concluded as he trekked as fast as he could, he'd had only one option: to put Francois out of commission long enough to save Lucia. Once he'd accomplished that...well, it was wishful thinking to think he could change Francois' isolation from his family. Or that Francois would even want to see him again. Perhaps Francois would choke him to death if he ever saw him again, no matter what he claimed about his pacifism.

Hroar shoved all of these thoughts out of his mind as the fortress appeared ahead of him. He had determined his course and brooding over it would destroy his focus. He crouched down as he approached. The fortress backed against a mountain. Luckily for him, the wooden fence in front had long ago fallen into disrepair. He took cover behind some rotting posts and peered through them. A lone man sat before the entrance on a tree trunk. He was flipping a branch in his hand, throwing it up in the air and catching it deftly. He looked bored. He had a bandage wrapped around his chest. _The one I wounded_. The man didn't appear to be guarding the fortress. Hroar guessed he'd been ordered to wait for howls and relay them to the alpha inside.

Hroar wondered how well werewolves could smell when human. Francois' wife had smelled his parents' remains while human, so there had to be some heightened sense even when human. Or maybe their sensitivity only lingered for a time after they reverted to flesh. Whatever the case, he should stay downwind of the man.

Hroar sneaked along the rundown fence, fearing time was passing too quickly and anticipating an interruption of howls from Francois and the werewolf guard. He would have to assault the man openly if that were the case. Hroar managed to maneuver himself about six feet from his target. Hroar climbed onto a rock jutting out from the mountain's base, giving him a clear view over the fence. The man's back was to him. Hroar withdrew a potion bottle. He took a deep breath. The potion bottle flew through the air and hit its target, exploding against the log. The man jumped up, startled, and turned. He saw Hroar and began to transform, but he didn't get far; he keeled over backwards.

Hroar withdrew another bottle from his robe, leaped over the fence and hit the ground running for the door to the fortress. As he gripped the handle and shoved the door open he hoped more of the pack hadn't shown up. This Aela seemed compelling and he was certain the six werewolves he'd seen with her weren't the complete number in her pack. No one met him inside the door. He'd memorized the route to the cage when he'd been brought here, but he wasn't sure if they would carry out Lucia's torture there or in the large room or even somewhere else. He didn't have time to search the whole facility. He decided to head for the large room. It would have been easiest to leave Lucia where she'd been chained to a chair.

Hroar met no one along the way. The alpha hadn't called in the whole pack, then. Good. He found the door to the large room open. He crouched as silently as possible, sidling up to the door frame, listening intently. He heard a loud yawn.

"When will it be time again?" a weary male voice queried.

"Should be soon," a second man's voice answered.

Hroar recognized them both—the men that had come for him in the cage. He held his breath and peeked around the door frame. He caught himself from gasping aloud. Lucia still sat bound in the chair, but her state...When he'd found her in the clearing, she had been wounded in the eye and her clothes torn through, her body cut up with claw marks. That had been bad enough, but now...Dried blood streaked down all four of her limbs. Her hair was matted with red, her braid unfurled. Her head was bowed. It moved up and down with her chest. At least she lived.

Hroar worked to control the anger that sprang up inside him. To see Lucia brought so low was like seeing a lion shaved of its mane and hamstrung. As much as he'd despised Lucia's taunting, he'd also grudgingly admired her skills as a Vigilant. He'd never imagined seeing her so brutally defeated.

Hroar wrenched his eyes off of Lucia, directing his attention to the two men on the dais, one sitting with his feet dangling over the edge, the other laid down with eyes closed. Besides Lucia, they were the only occupants of the room. Hroar tallied. He'd observed seven werewolves in the fortress when he'd first been here. Francois and another had been dealt with back at the shack. A third he'd dispatched at the door. That meant four left inside. Once he took care of these two, he had only one to contend with besides the alpha. If she was even here anymore. Perhaps luck would hold with him and she had left, leaving Lucia's torture to others.

Hroar leaned away from the door. He tightened his grip on the potion bottle in his hand. This was the last gas potion left. He'd only been able to make three out of the ingredients in the shack. After he used this one, he only had one more trick up his sleeve. He didn't want to use it unless absolutely necessary. Hroar imagined the men on the dais. They were too close to Lucia. He put a hand to his chin, thinking. He spied a discarded shoe thick with spider webs just down the hall. He scurried down the hall, picked it up and retraced his steps to the door. He threw the shoe as far as possible into the room. It tumbled across the floor, clattering into old debris on the far side away from the dais.

"What was that?" one of the men called out.

"I don't know."

"Imme?" A pause. "What do you think?"

"Maybe a skeever. Cellar's full of them. They get out sometimes."

"I'll check it out." A solitary set of footsteps crossed the room. Hroar cursed inside. He'd hoped both would come his way. No such luck. A man came into view, passing the door and moving toward the location of the shoe. Hroar didn't have the time to mess with these men; he rose and entered the room, barreling towards the man that had passed the door.

"Phipp!" the man back at the dais shouted out. "Behind you!"

Phipp turned. Hroar halted and backed towards the entrance. The man, Phipp, looked stunned, then angry. "How did you..." The other man was running towards the end of the hall. When the man reached his side, Phipp said, "Go get Aela."

So the alpha was still in the fortress. "No!" Hroar shouted, stalling the other man's departure. "Stop!" He held the potion bottle aloft. "I won't hurt you if you let her go."

Phipp snarled at him. "Go," he commanded the other man.

Hroar threw the potion bottle so it landed between the two men. Another explosion of gas and two more werewolves down. Hroar held his breath as he rifled through the men's clothes. He found a key. He ran to the other side of the room, gulping in air when he was out of range of the gas. He reached Lucia and gripped her chin in his hand, tipping her head up. Her lips were tinged with blood and her left cheek bore a wound from forehead to chin.

"Lucia," he said urgently. "Lucia!"

She opened and closed her eyes groggily.

"Lucia! Focus!"

She blinked again, then stared at him. "Hroar?" she croaked out.

"Yes. Here. I need you to drink this. We don't have much time." He pulled a bottle out of his robe, this one half full of a red liquid. He hadn't been able to make a full dose of healing potion. This would have to do. He uncorked the bottle, then braced Lucia's head from behind to support her. He held the bottle to her lips and she drank as ordered. He had to pour slowly and he worried too much time was passing. When she had finished, he warned her he was about to let go of her head. She managed to hold it up when he released her. Now that she was somewhat stable, he knelt behind the chair and fit the key to the manacles.

"You need to stand," he urged, coming back around in front of her and grasping her hands. "Come on."

She allowed him to pull her up. Her knees buckled. Hroar gripped tighter to keep her from crashing down too hard. He knelt down next to her, put a hand on her shoulder and infused all the restoration magic he could into her. She breathed in deeply, then met his eyes. Her eyes had cleared.

"I can walk," she insisted. He helped her to her feet. They walked several steps and she stumbled.

"Here," he said. "Put your arm around my shoulders." When she did so, he wrapped an arm around her waist. They left the room, moving as fast as Lucia could manage.

"How did you...get away?" Lucia asked.

"I'll explain later," Hroar said.

"You didn't give them what they wanted."

"No," Hroar said.

"Good. Filthy curs."

Hroar didn't have the time nor inclination to explain that he actually wanted to help Francois. "We need to be silent," he hissed instead.

Lucia nodded.

A few more minutes and they reached the entrance. Hroar had begun to breathe easy. They would make it out. He had just laid a hand on the door handle when a furious voice spoke behind him.

"What have you done with my wolves?"

Hroar let go of the handle and turned awkwardly with Lucia. The alpha stood about eight feet away with another scantily clad woman at her side.

"They aren't dead," Hroar said quickly.

"Did you hurt them?"

"They'll be fine." His eyes darted around the entryway. There was enough room. Still, he and Lucia might get singed.

The woman narrowed her eyes. "I think you lie."

Hroar didn't answer. She distrusted him and he didn't feel any good would come of arguing with her.

"Your companion could have lived. Now she will be immediately executed and _you_ will help us through pain if that's what it takes."

"No," Hroar said simply. He let go of Lucia. She collapsed to the floor at the unexpected release of his support. His hands were in his robe in less than a second and he pulled out two final bottles. He threw one right in the front of the alpha. She jumped back as liquid sprayed into the air. The other woman stalked towards him. He threw the second bottle. He didn't wait to see the reaction. He grabbed Lucia by the arm, flung open the door and dragged her through as a wave of heat hit their backs. He glanced backwards once they were outside; flames filled the entryway. He'd been forced to use his last line of defense, oil combined with fire. Now they had to rely on their legs to save them.

"Get up!" he yelled at Lucia.

He yanked until she stood and pulled her away from the fortress. If luck held with them, the werewolves had been routed and would not come after them. But he couldn't be sure. He held onto Lucia and headed for the rushing water he'd heard when he'd been bundled off to the shack in the early morning hours. He didn't know if it was a stream or a river. He hoped for a river. Lucia was too wounded to go far and rivers meant settlements. They had to find people and fast.

* * *

Hroar attempted to infuse more restoration into Lucia, but he'd drained himself. Lucia had tried her own restoration spells but she was too wounded to make much of a difference. At least she could walk on her own. They were now following a river's path. Hroar explained they needed to find a settlement. Werewolves avoided public exposure and Aela obsessively protected her pack. If they surrounded themselves with other people, he didn't think she'd allow her wolves to come after them.

Lucia halted, doubling over with her hands on her knees. Hroar stopped next to her. "Are you alright?"

Lucia laughed sarcastically. "Do I _look_ alright?"

Hroar frowned at her. "You know what I meant."

"I know," she breathed out. "Old habits."

"We need to keep moving."

"I need a moment."

"Only a short one," Hroar acquiesced.

Lucia remained bent over, gasping in air like she was drowning. Hroar considered her face. The wound on her left side had healed into a scar as a result of the restoration. Her eye was still closed up, a thin red line indicating where the lids met. He hadn't asked her about it, afraid to hear her answer. Now though...

"How is your eye?"

Lucia turned her head to him. "What eye?"

Hroar gave her an exasperated look.

"I mean it," Lucia said. "I have no right eye."

Hroar's stomach turned even though he'd suspected the truth. Her lids had been too sunken in and he'd wondered if she'd lost it, clawed out by a werewolf in the attack.

"It might be infected," Hroar said with concern.

"Probably is. It aches like hell."

Hroar couldn't help but admire Lucia. She hadn't complained of any pain until he asked. She was the strongest person he knew, even when her physical body had been depleted.

"Come on," Hroar encouraged, taking her arm and pulling her to a stand. They continued to walk the water's edge.

Minutes ticked by and Hroar had begun to despair that they'd discovered the one river in all of Skyrim devoid of human habitation. He didn't have a backup plan. Now he worried. They'd have to hide themselves soon. But the werewolves could sniff them out. Where would be safe?

They turned a bend in the river and Hroar's heart soared. "There!" he cried out, pointing ahead to a building on the other side of the river, maybe a hundred meters distant. Lucia breathed out a sigh of relief.

They were almost across from the building when Hroar's fears came to life: a chorus of howls resonated through the trees. It could be plain wolves, but he wasn't so naive to assume so. They had been tracked and would soon be seen. He could already hear the galloping of heavy feet. Hroar gripped Lucia by the arm and dragged her up the river. The building looked like a lodge of some kind. He prayed it was occupied.

"Get across! Now!" he shouted at Lucia, pushing her towards the embankment.

"But you..."

"I'll hold them off!"

"I can help."

"In your state without a weapon?"

"Hroar..."

"Go!"

"I shouldn't have called you a traitor." He looked back at her, but she was already crossing the river, wading against the current.

Hroar faced the forest. The werewolves emerged, but as humans. The alpha was there and the woman that had been with her at the fortress. The man he'd wounded was with them as well, bandage gone, an ugly red line evidence of Hroar's dagger.

Hroar stood his ground. He had no weapon, but he still had something to bargain with: himself. "Leave her alone!" he demanded. "I'll go with you without a fight."

The alpha laughed. "You wouldn't stand a chance against three of us."

Hroar heard Lucia's voice and then another's. He glanced back. A man had emerged from the lodge, a hunter by the looks of him. Lucia was gesturing and pointing. The man called out and others appeared, more hunters. Hroar looked back to the alpha. She did not look pleased. "I can't win against you. But are you willing to kill them, too?"

The alpha stared him down. "You will regret this," she hissed.

"You'll leave her?"

"For now. But we have not finished with your Vigil."

Hroar didn't doubt that, but he only cared that Lucia was safe. "A moment." Hroar looked across the river at Lucia, still explaining, four hunters surrounding her. One was already holding a bow. If he didn't leave soon, the hunters would attack and then more people would die.

"Lucia!" he called, his hands cupped around his mouth. She stopped talking and looked across the river. "I'm going! You stay here!"

Lucia ran back towards the edge of the river. The hunters stayed on the porch of their lodge, seemingly unsure what to do.

"Hroar!"

"I made a deal. You stay."

"No! You can't trust them!" She began to put a foot in the water.

"Go back. Take her lab and her room. They should have been yours all along."

"Hroar, you can't."

"Shut up for once and just do what I say!"

Lucia stood frozen, one foot in the river.

"You don't have the strength. Not now. And no one else needs to die."

Lucia didn't budge.

"I'll be alright," he lied. "Look. Janshai told me to get you back alive."

At the mention of Janshai, Lucia pulled her foot back.

"He'll be waiting for you."

"I can't let you go!"

Hroar held a hand aloft. "If you follow me, I swear I'll _make_ you stay."

Lucia stared. "You mean it."

"Don't try me." Hroar knew she had no idea if he was even capable of such a spell. He turned to the three werewolves. "Let's go." He walked towards them. They parted and followed behind him.

"Hroar!" he heard Lucia call one more time. He didn't look back. _She'd better stay put_. Even she couldn't be so foolish as to think she could take on three werewolves at this point. Hroar hiked for a time, footsteps a constant accompaniment behind him. The alpha spoke.

"That's far enough."

Hroar swallowed, turning to confront her fierce glare. "I'll try to remove the mark."

"If Francois is alive."

"He is."

"He said he knew you long ago." It was an accusation.

"He did."

The alpha said nothing for a time, eyes searching him. He guessed she was trying to assess if his tie to Francois had been strong enough to leave his friend alive. "Imme!" The other woman stepped forward. "Go to the mage's shack. Find Francois and Dreue and bring them to me." The woman nodded curtly and bolted into the forest. The alpha looked back to Hroar. "You know Renaud." She gestured to the man next to her, the one with the dagger wound.

"I know who he is," Hroar confirmed.

"Search him," she commanded Renaud.

The man roughly grabbed Hroar and patted his clothing. "Nothing," he reported, confirming Hroar had no more bottles secreted in his robes.

"And now, Renaud, I think this Vigilant needs to understand the wrath of the pack."

Renaud grinned and began to shift. Hroar tried to pull away, but the man grew stronger by the second as he morphed. Hroar scratched at the hand becoming paw that held him in place. He cast a ward, knowing even then it was in vain. He was abruptly lifted around the waist and thrown into the air. He came crashing down to the forest floor, landing on his left arm, collapsing the ward. He groaned as his arm throbbed sharply. A harsh growl resounded and he was turned over onto his back. He cowered under Renaud's beastly jaws. He tried to curl up to protect himself, but the beast gripped him by the neck, hauling him to his feet. It dropped him and kicked, sending him rolling backwards. Hroar didn't have a chance to recover. More kicks and punches. Then the werwolf let loose, ripping into him. Claws raked across his face and he screamed at the burning pain. His cry was suddenly joined by a series of barks and his attacker laid off.

Hroar breathed shallowly. Was the alpha satisfied? He tried to push himself up, but felt he might retch. He wiped a hand over his face and was met with slick stickiness. Blood. Through a haze he saw the arched back of a werewolf above him and through its legs spied the alpha and his attacker. The alpha was transforming. When she completed it, a cacophony of barking ensued, a werewolf argument he presumed. Hroar stared at the beast in front of him. He wasn't sure, but he could guess who it was.

Suddenly the alpha and Renaud leaped towards his werewolf protector. A savage fight ensued. Hroar army crawled away to get out of the way, not wanting to be in the middle of the fray. He gave up and rolled onto his back. He was too weak. He stared at the sky, listening to what sounded like the most vicious dog fight he'd ever heard. The sky abruptly disappeared. He'd been snatched up by one of the werewolves who carried him under one arm as if he were a rag doll. He didn't know if he should struggle or not, unsure who had won. When he heard the crashing behind them he guessed neither. It had turned into a chase.

Hroar couldn't see anything. He was bouncing up and down violently and blood had flowed back into his eyes. How long the chase lasted he didn't know, but eventually he felt himself falling. His body rebounded when he hit ground and he moaned loudly. His eyes stung. He heard a thump to his right.

"Is this him?"a female voice asked.

"I had to stop them." Francois.

"Then..."

"We can't go back...I'm sorry."

A resigned breath. "You had to." Hroar felt a rag blotted on his face. "These are deep," the woman's voice said with concern.

Hroar forced open his eyes. Francois looked down at him. "You're safe. They won't find us here."

Hroar felt his body collapse. Over a day without sleep, continual stress and brutal pain had taken its toll. He gave himself up to grateful oblivion.

* * *

Hroar drew in a shuddering breath and let it out gradually. He felt warm and comfortable and like a ton of weights were pushing him into the ground. Behind shuttered eyelids he caught flickers of light. He opened and closed his eyes a few times before managing to keep them open. A rocky opening far above him revealed a clear sky sprinkled with twinkling stars. Orange and yellow patterns quivered on the rock. He turned a stiff neck to identify the source. Only a few feet from him a small fire burned casting dancing shadows on rocky walls. Through the flames he beheld a woman, tall and pale and ginger haired. She sat cross-legged, a small blonde-haired boy in her lap sleeping soundly. She had been humming softly and looking away from him, but her head turned and their eyes met.

"Francois!" she called out immediately.

A rustle came from somewhere behind his head.

"He's awake," she announced.

Legs came into view. They knelt down and Francois looked into his face. "Don't move quickly. You've been sleeping for hours."

Hroar lifted a heavy arm to his forehead. "How...long?"

"Almost twelve if I number the sun and moon correctly."

It was the middle of the night then. Hroar ran a hand over his forehead, then jerked it away when a jolting sting assaulted him under a cloth, followed by a series of similar stings across his face.

"I don't have your skills," Francois spoke apologetically. "We've done what we could."

Hroar placed a gentle palm on his forehead and exuded restoration magic. The stinging dissipated. His left arm ached and he didn't dare try to move it.

"Here." A hand scooped under his head and lifted it. A clay jar was held to his lips and Hroar gratefully sipped water.

"Thank you," he breathed.

Francois set the jar next to the fire. He then lowered himself and sat next to Hroar's legs so his upper half was still exposed to the fire.

"Where?" Hroar asked.

"A cave. We're well hidden. They came by in the afternoon but did not sense us."

"How..."

"Mora Tapinella. It grows all around the entrance." Francois pointed above at the opening. "It has a pungent odor to a werewolf and makes it difficult for us to smell anything else."

Hroar filed away the information about the fungus' effect on werewolves, adding to his knowledge of Skyrim's flora.

"Ceda and I have made this our hideaway." Francois' eyes flicked to the woman sitting on the other side of the fire. "This is my wife...and my son."

Hroar managed a weak nod. The woman nodded back. Hroar turned back, locking eyes with Francois. His friend's bare chest was cut up with claw and puncture wounds. "I didn't think...after what I did...Well, I didn't expect what you did."

Francois smiled grimly. "It wasn't an easy decision...But I had time to think after you put that stuff on me."

Hroar didn't regret he'd done it, but he couldn't help feeling a twinge of guilt over it. "About what?"

"Mostly Honorhall." Francois rubbed the back of his neck. "About all we went through back then...You remember when I sneaked into Grelod's room?"

"Of course," Hroar wheezed.

"I made you help me and it didn't end well. And then you helped me get away. I always wondered if that got you in trouble. Did she..."

Hroar rolled his head side to side. "She suspected, but Constance kept her from taking it out on me."

"You were always there for me. And you risked everything with your people to save my life...To be honest, I wasn't sure when I caught up to you in the woods what I would do. And then I saw them attacking you...It was like being back in Honorhall and watching Grelod do her worst." Francois dipped his head.

Hroar held his breath, remembering the many times Grelod beat him severely and Francois sat with him afterwards, countering everything she had said and comforting him through the pain.

"I couldn't just stand there. Not when I could stop it. What you said about us standing by and watching pain inflicted on others. It's true." Francois' eyes flicked to his wife and back again. "You have to understand. Aela's trying to protect us. We're hated and feared most everywhere. No one understands lycanthropy as a gift. Aela does. She knows others will target us and she's dedicated herself to keeping us safe. She's vowed never to let what happened with the Silver Hand repeat itself."

"And so she hates the Vigil."

Francois nodded. "Your people want our destruction. She responds as she must." Francois sighed. "I admit your loyalty to the other Vigilant, that is a bit disconcerting. But if you were taken from Honorhall by a Vigilant, I can understand it even if I do not like it. And now that _I_ have aided a Vigilant..." Francois cut off and shared another glance with his wife.

Hroar felt suddenly sad. "You can't go back to your pack."

Francois nodded.

"I'm sorry," Hroar whispered.

"It will be difficult without them, without friends and support, but...all I ever wanted was to live a quiet life with Cedany and Tristan. It's not my mission to rid the world of werewolf-haters."

"And if it is not my husband's mission," Cedany added, "it is not mine." She locked eyes with Hroar. "And I, too, appreciate what you have done. Without you, my child would have lost a father."

Francois smiled at her appreciatively. He had a loyal wife.

Hroar pondered. He hadn't thought when he'd saved Francois that he'd saved a family. He'd only thought of getting him out of the hall alive and fixing his lycanthropy. And now, he saw there was no need to. Francois was not the danger the Vigil assumed him to be.

And what Francois said about Aela...Well, the Vigil, too, had reacted aggressively to destruction. When the Hall of the Vigilant had been destroyed, the Vigilants that had been scouring and lived had gathered together, angry, devastated and grieving. And in their grief they vowed themselves to continue their object to rid Skyrim of abominations and to do so at all costs. But for Hroar... "The Vigil's mission isn't my own," he confessed. It had only been his aunt's and he had gone along with it. He would have been utterly content to study and learn and create and never scour again. Hroar felt a burden lift. This was the first time he had ever admitted it to himself. "I can't go back either."

"I guess it's time we grow up," Francois muttered with a wry smile. "Make our own way in the world."

Yes. But where to go and what to do? It was a bit overwhelming to have the world at your fingertips. And then another thought intruded. "I can't get rid of the mark, at least, not yet. Maybe not ever."

"I know," Francois said. "I will have to learn to live with it."

"Your family..."

"Will live with it, too," Cedany interjected. "We will be careful."

"Get away from here, this area," Hroar advised. "The Vigilants may travel everywhere, but they are more numerous here."

"We'll leave," Francois assured him. "But before that, we need to be convinced of your recovery. Here." He reached a hand out to Hroar who took it and allowed himself to be helped to a sitting position. His back ached, his left arm throbbed and he felt a flurry of stinging. He looked to his torn clothes. Swaths of cloth had been tied all over his arms and legs and one across his middle. Francois stretched out an arm and pulled something away from the fire. He handed Hroar a bowl with steaming meat inside. "Take it slowly," he advised.

Hroar nodded and ate. The meat was unseasoned. He guessed werewolves with their heightened senses got enough enjoyment from its purity. They lapsed into silence. Hroar stared across the fire at the toddler in Cedany's lap. To think if the Vigil knew this one was destined to be a werewolf they would kill him. How often had he heard the phrase "no mercy on the pups"? Hroar swallowed a piece of meat and paused, talking silently to the woman who had ruled his heart since he'd left Honorhall. _The Vigil cannot be my way, aunt. I think some day when we meet again, I may explain and you may understand._


	9. Epilogue

Hroar took a sip of ale, then stared into the silver goblet in his hand. He fingered his thick mustache and goatee, then ran his finger tips over five pinkish lines that crossed his face diagonally from left to right, forehead to chin. After six years, he hardly ever thought about them—except when new students showed up at the College. Hroar chuckled. Inevitably, new students that were put under his tutelage stared until he nudged them to ask whatever concerned them. And invariably, they'd stammer out something about hearing he'd been a werewolf fighter before he came to the College and had received the scars from a vicious werewolf he'd fought from evening until morning, coming out the victor. He always countered the tales, saying no such thing had occurred and in truth he had not had the strength to fight off the werewolf. He was saved by someone else. And then the student would ask who, and he would go on with the lesson. Sometimes they believed his story and sometimes they thought he spoke only in humility.

Hroar set the goblet on the table and glanced once more at the door to the inn. He'd been waiting at least three hours for his visitors. He would have traveled to see them himself, but they wandered too much to guarantee he could find them at any given time. So instead he'd sent a courier with the unenviable job of tracking them down. He'd received an answer two weeks later that they would come to Winterhold in a month's time. They named a day and time; he had already named the place. Hroar drummed his fingers on his table. He had seen them numerous times over the years, but today was momentous. His study had finally paid off.

When he'd parted from Francois, Hroar had wandered for about a month, and more than once someone who noticed his robes suggested he check out the mages college in Winterhold. He began to wonder if he dedicated himself to the study of magic, could he find a way to undo what he had done? So he made his way to Winterhold through snow and sleet and dispatching of snowy sabre cats. He'd arrived on the College's doorstep half-starved and shivering to death and that earned him entry as he chattered out his desire to study there.

He didn't remain a student for long, mainly because he buried himself in books and became ridiculously knowledgeable in a short period of time. He even managed to impress Urag, the elderly and crotchety librarian of The Arcanaeum; the Orc took to bringing him meals when he neglected to eat, his nose buried in another tome. Urag joked that if ever he had the misfortune to die, Hroar would be able to step in and no one would notice a difference. Hroar smiled and laughed, but never explained why he was so studious. Although he digested every piece of information he studied, only one desire motivated him: to discover how to free his friend from a curse he had saddled him with. And now he had succeeded. He could finally make up for what he had done.

As Hroar waited, he pulled out a letter that had arrived as he'd made the trek down to Winterhold proper. A courier had hailed him as he entered the town's main road, handing over a letter. Instead of leaving, the courier had stood gazing on him. Hroar assumed his scars had ensnared another. "Long story," he'd said. The courier stammered, "Oh, no. I wasn't...uh...sorry" and moved off, but glanced over his shoulder as he did so. Hroar had stared back and the courier looked away, walking back down the lane. He almost seemed familiar. Hroar turned his attention to the letter, throwing curious couriers out of his mind. It was addressed to "His Honorable Master of Alchemy and Never-ending Study, College of Winterhold." Hroar laughed aloud. Perhaps that explained the courier's stare. The townspeople must have told him to look for the mage with five scars crossing his face. Leave it to Lucia to tease him and taunt the courier.

Hroar now opened the letter a second time, perusing the contents. He received correspondence from Lucia now and then. Their experience with the werewolves had demolished old grudges and brought them a camaraderie neither had expected. Hroar recalled the day he saw Lucia for the first time after the werewolf incident. He'd lived at the College two years when a fellow student interrupted his experimenting to tell him that Faralda requested his presence as she was holding off an incensed woman who was demanding she be let in to see him. Hroar didn't know many people these days, mostly fellow mages at the College and he'd traversed the bridges down to Winterhold with curiosity. When he'd spied a woman with a long braid, a sour expression and a scarred right eye socket, he'd been dumbfounded and a bit apprehensive. He told Faralda to let her by and for a few seconds, he and Lucia simply eyeballed each other, until Lucia marched up to him and stated, "So, it's true. You're alive." He'd confirmed so and escorted her to his quarters.

Turned out Lucia had spent quite a bit of time trying to find him. He apologized for not informing her he had survived. She wasn't angry, only relieved to have found him. "I couldn't think that I'd let her own flesh and blood..." She'd cut her statement short. Hroar understood. She felt she owed it to Dimia. She had finally found him when a new book fell across her path, _A Mage's Guide to Unexpected Remedies for Common Maladies_. Hroar had written it the year before and was surprised a copy had made it as far as the Hall of the Vigilant. Lucia next expressed concern over his scars and Hroar had related what happened after he left the river. He mentioned Francois saving him, but didn't reveal that he'd lived with his family for a time healing. Lucia had raised her eyebrows in surprise at a werewolf savior and an awkward silence had descended. They would never see eye to eye on abominations. Lucia broke the silence to say something he'd never heard come out of her mouth, "Thank you." She expressed her gratitude for what he had done and told him that she had informed the Vigil that he had saved her; she had neglected to mention Francois.

Hroar reread the letter:

 _Hroar the Lion, I assume this letter finds you ensconced in your library or buried under ingredients. We still rely on your books here with some regularity. I write not only to assure you are well, but at the behest of Janshai. He is not sure about page 234 in your newest book. He insists you have mixed up Bleeding Crown for Blisterwort as he has not achieved the same results as you. Please clarify this so the old Elf will stop chewing my ear off over it! Also, I plan to be near Winterhold in three months time. I will attempt to visit and I would appreciate it if you would warn your guard dog who glares at me every time I come. Lucia._

Hroar smiled at her calling Faralda a guard dog. The door to the inn swung open, crashing into the wall. A female voice chastised, "Tristan! Not so wild now!" at the same time a boy's voice cried out, "Uncle Hroar!" Hroar stuffed the letter back into his robes and grinned when he felt an assault, someone jumping onto his back. He reached behind his shoulders and flipped the attacker over his head, laughing and setting a boy of nine next to him on the bench. He hadn't seen the boy in six months.

He tousled the boy's hair. "Can't be you. You've..."

"Grown too much," the boy cut in. "Yeah, yeah. You always say that."

"Manners!" the female called out again. She had reached the table and was settling in across from Hroar. Her ginger hair was secured high on her head and cascaded down her back. Her eyes twinkled. "I suppose one can't expect much when he spends most of his days gallivanting around outdoors." The woman removed her cloak and set it beside her as Hroar greeted her.

"It's good to see you again."

"And you."

"What about me?" A man came into view, Francois, a friend he knew as well now as he had as a child.

Hroar gestured across the table. "And perhaps you as well." He grinned. Francois sat down next to his wife. He shifted a dozing bundle he carried, Juliana, the youngest Beaufort at two years, and reached across the table to shake hands with Hroar.

"How is she?" Hroar asked, indicating the toddler. Cedany's labor had been difficult and the infant weak for a time. Francois and his wife had lost two other children before her.

"She's strong now. But calmer. Unlike her brother."

"I want to be a mage!" Tristan suddenly declared, paying no heed to the topic of conversation.

Hroar raised his eyebrows. "Now?"

"When I grow up. Father said I could."

Hroar looked to Francois. "Oh did he?"

"If he wants," Francois said. "But he changes his mind almost every day."

"Not this time!" Tristan declared indignantly. "I want to be a mage."

Hroar patted the boy on his back. "I will have an apprenticeship waiting whenever you want it."

The boy crossed his arms over his chest and held his chin up proudly. "See. Told you uncle would take me."

"I didn't doubt it," Francois returned.

"Alright. Enough talk," Cedany brought a halt to the current discussion. "I thought you said you were _starving_. So let's eat."

"I am starving!" Tristan insisted. "We walked for days."

"We didn't walk the whole way."

"Well, enough then."

Hroar gestured to the inn keeper who sent over four meals. As he handed Tristan a bowl, he eyed him suspiciously and leaned in close to his ear. "If you want to be a mage, what about the moon blood?"

Tristan shrugged and whispered back. "I'll be both."

Hroar spooned his own meal into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. A werewolf mage. He'd never heard of one, but then again, with all his study at the College of Winterhold, he'd learned a lot of things were possible that he'd never even dreamed of.

The happy group ate and chatted. Through vague language and coded speech, Hroar learned that Francois' pack had grown by two since last they'd met. Over the last six years, Francois had become an alpha himself. As he and his family wandered throughout Skyrim, they met people who had been outcast when they'd become lycanthropes. Some exiled themselves and some were forced to flee under threats of death. Francois took pity on them and offered them training and freedom from the fear of their beastly powers. Right now he led a pack of twelve; the number tended to vary. Some were too restless to stick with a pack for long.

When they finished their meal and their bowls and plates had been collected, Francois leaned across the table and spoke softly. "Is it ready?"

"There's nothing to prepare," Hroar told him. "We only need my skill. I rented a room. Come with me." He rose from the bench, followed by Tristan, then his mother and finally Francois carrying Juliana. Hroar pulled aside a curtain, stepping aside to let the family enter. The room was narrow and sparse, though cozy, containing a bed, a chair, and a dresser. Tristan bounded for the bed, but Hroar interjected. "Your father will need that."

"Aw..." Tristan objected.

"Go look in my satchel. Top drawer of the dresser."

Tristan's eyes lit up eagerly as he ran to the dresser.

Cedany sat in the chair and Francois passed Juliana over to her. The toddler stirred slightly, then settled down in her mother's arms, back to her comfortable sleep. Francois approached the bed nervously. "The bed, huh? Is it that bad?"

"For you, I'm not sure. But the skeevers certainly didn't approve."

Francois laid back on the bed.

"Papa! Papa! Uncle Hroar! Really?"

Hroar looked over at Tristan bouncing up and down holding a purplish stone. "Is it for me? Really?"

Cedany sent a disapproving look at Hroar. "Is that...did you really give him what he wanted?"

Hroar raised his hands in defense. "It's not. Not really. It's just a fragment."

"Look at it, mama!" Tristan held the soul gem fragment up to the candlelight.

"It _is_ beautiful."

"If you have a whole one, you can..." Tristan went off, everything he knew about soul gems pouring out of his mouth and meant to inform his mother who looked like she often had to put up with a boy who talked a mile a minute.

Hroar turned his attention to Francois. "So, it's not too complicated, at least the process of removing it. I worked out the spell, but..."

Francois knit his brow. "But..."

"It does involve some intense magic."

"So it might hurt _a lot_."

"Yes."

"Get on with it."

"You'll have to be wolf."

"Ah. Alright." Francois sucked in a breath and then changed. Hroar hadn't seen him in his werewolf form in at least three years. When the Beaufort family came to visit, they always came as human.

Hroar surveyed Francois' left shoulder. The mark gleamed yellow as always. He studied the unique pattern, then held up a cupped hand. Energy began to swirl, a bluish haze coalescing in his palm. He took a breath. He pressed the energy into Francois' werewolf shoulder. Francois clenched his jaw, then he began to tremble and a whimper escaped through his teeth. Tristan had gone silent, Hroar assumed watching as he worked on his father. The yellow faded slightly. Hroar pushed harder into the shoulder. Now Francois whined and gripped the bed with his clawed hands. Hroar concentrated, moving his palm up and down. Then, abruptly, the yellow gleam faded out of existence. A burden lifted from Hroar's soul. He pulled his hand back. "It's gone."

Francois relaxed his hold on the bed. He took some time to recover, then the werewolf shrunk and the human emerged. Hroar pulled a blanket over his friend and scrutinized the shoulder. A residual mass of white scarring remained. Francois looked down at his shoulder and rubbed it gently with his right hand. "Aches."

"It probably will for a while. The scarring is permanent."

"But no tracking?"

"No. You cannot be found that way anymore." At least once a year Hroar knew the family had had to flee Vigilants. He sighed. "I'm sorry I..."

"Don't do that," Francois scolded angrily. "You've apologized enough over the years. I don't want to hear it anymore."

Hroar inclined his head and swallowed his apology. "Will you stay?" he asked instead.

Francois pulled himself up on the bed. He put a hand to his forehead and swayed. Hroar placed a steadying hand behind his back. "Take it easy."

Francois coughed and spoke regretfully. "We can't. The pack isn't far and one of our new members is struggling to adapt."

Hroar felt disappointed, but didn't let it show. "Then let me know when you come back this way again."

"Of course we will," Cedany promised. She bounced the little girl on her lap whose eyes had opened. The toddler squealed and smiled at Hroar.

The family waited until Francois could walk unaided, then left the room and headed to the entrance. Hroar shook each hand after they'd bundled up for the weather. The time had gone too quickly. Every time they left after a visit he felt empty. When he was with them he felt like he was a Beaufort, like he belonged. He felt the same at the College, but to a lesser degree. There was something different between a school and a family and he preferred the family.

Hroar followed them out into the street. Francois clapped him on the back one more time. Heavy snow had begun to fall. His friend leaned into his ear. "Thank you. I know you came to the College for me. Thank you."

Hroar didn't feel he deserved such gratitude since he'd been the reason for the mark in the first place, but he nodded to acknowledge his friend's gratefulness. He had come to the College to figure out how to help Francois, but in the process learned that being a mage was his calling.

Hroar watched the family walk down the road and out of sight, Tristan looking back to wave every few seconds. He sighed heavily and headed back to the College, traversing its long bridges. He paced through the courtyard and back to his quarters. He had a lecture to deliver in an hour. He sat down at a table, pulling Lucia's letter out of his pocket and setting it on the table. He stared at the form of address. _Hroar the Lion._ She'd once mocked his name, deriding him for his lack of lion-like attributes, but now her use was one of respect.

"Excuse me? Master?"

Hroar looked up. A young face peered through his doorway. A new arrival to the college, hardly more than a youth at seventeen. "Yes?"

"I wondered...maybe you could watch this spell...I'm not sure...It keeps coming out wrong." Hroar gestured the student inside. The student sat down. He kept staring and Hroar sighed. "I was never a werewolf-hunter and I did not fight one all day and win."

"Oh. Oh. Sorry. No. I...I actually was thinking about...never mind."

Hroar was curious. "Thinking about what? You don't have to hide anything from me. I'm not harsh."

"Well, they say you're called Hroar the Lion."

Hroar smiled at the coincidence as he'd just been thinking about it himself. "Not formally."

"Well, someone told me it's because you're a warrior, or were, and you went to Hammerfell and hunted lions so long you think like one."

Hroar kept himself from laughing aloud. So, now he was a lion hunter. "It's not true. I've never been to Hammerfell. And truthfully, I do not think much like a lion. I am no warrior."

"I-I'm sorry I mentioned it, sir."

Hroar waved the apology away. "Just show me the spell."

As the student complied, Hroar ruminated. He'd failed at being the king of beasts he'd imagined all his life and here rumor kept assigning lion-like qualities to him. The student stood in front of his wardrobe and Hroar's eye fell on a set of robes visible through a crack in the door. Lucia had brought them to him when she'd first come to the College. "I saw you kept them," she explained. "I thought you might want them." He'd taken them gingerly out of her hands and held them close to his face, breathing in his aunt's earthy scent. He still missed her to this day.

As the student explained his trouble, Hroar only heard his aunt's voice speaking in his mind, a memory from the past: _You do have strength, my lion. You were aptly named. You have your own strength in your own way_. He'd always assumed a lion's strength lied in vicious battle, but his aunt had attributed the height of courage to the man she loved, his father when he had chosen to die. "You're a strong man, Hroar," Lucia had said when she thanked him. "I was wrong not to see it before." Hroar fingered his goatee. Perhaps strength could be found in more than battle. Perhaps it was also found in courage to do what was right no matter the cost, whether that was dying to spare others or rescuing a nemesis or setting an abomination free. Was Dimia right? Had he been a lion all along? Hroar chuckled quietly. If so, he was a lion orphaned because of a vampire, beaten by a hagraven, rescued by a warrior, and close friends with a wolf. _I wonder if my strange tale will someday make the storybooks._

"Master?"

Hroar looked up from his reverie. "Oh. I was thinking. Show me again."

The student performed the spell again and Hroar settled back into his seat. His tale had been a strange one and although it was filled with pain and danger, it also contained elements of courage and love and loyalty. And he found himself suddenly content to be who he was and what he was. Hroar the Lion, indeed.


End file.
